LOST   FACE 


o. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •   SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


' ' '  Who  will  buy  a  wife  ? '  she  asked. ' 


See  page  214. 


LOST    FACE 


BY 

JACK    LONDON 

AUTHOR    OF    "MARTIN    EDEN,"     "THE    CALL 
OF    THE    WILD,"    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


3       I    O,    I    •>    O        O  j'o 

3       •    *•    «    2     °    «  3 

V?'?     3        ^      -,  0, 


O         O  1    330      O        03 

30       1  00-':L0 

^'O   3^3  O'    3^     VS' 


fotft 
THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1910 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1910, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  March,  1910.     Reprinted 
March,  1910. 


Jlregg 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PAGE 

LOST  FACE          .......  I 

TRUST       .          .          .  •          .          .          .          .31 

To  BUILD  A  FIRE        .          .          .          .          .          .61 

THAT  SPOT         .......        99 

FLUSH  OF  GOLD  .          .          .          .          .          .123 

THE  PASSING  OF  MARCUS  O'BRIEN         .          .          .159 
THE  WIT  OF  PORPORTUK     .          .          .          .          .189 


2G1335 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  *  Who  will  buy  a  wife  ? '   she  asked  "  .          .    Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

"  He  sat  in  the  snow,  arms  tied  behind  him  "  .  .          4 

"'I  laugh   at   you  and   your  strength.      Strike,    and 

strike  hard'" 26 

'« After  that,  Churchill  fought  on  alone"  .          .        44 

"As    he    looked    apathetically    about    him,    his    eyes 

chanced  on  the  dog"        .          .          .          .88 

"<  But  I  have  lived  '"  202 


vu 


LOST  FACE 


LOST  FACE 

IT  was  the  end.  ISubienkow  had  travelled 
a  long  trail  of  bitterness  and  horrorj 
homing  like  a  dove  for  the  capitals  of 
Europe,  and  here,  farther  away  than  ever,  in 
Russian  America,  the  trail  ceased,  rife 'sat  in 
the  snow,  arms  tied  behind  him,  waiting  the 
torture.  He  stared  curiously  before  him  at  a 
huge  Cossack,  prone  in  the  snow,  moaning  in 
his  painj  The  men  had  finished  handling  the 
giant  and  turned  him  over  to  the  women.  That 
they  exceeded  the  fiendishness  of  the  men,  the 
man's  cries  attested. 

j^Subienkow  looked  on,  and  shuddered.  He 
was  not  afraid  to  die.  He  had  carried  his  life 
too  long  in  his  handsjon  that  weary  trail  from 
Warsaw  to  Nulato^to  shudder  at  mere  dying. 
But  he  objected  to  the  torture.  It  offended  his 
soul.  And  this  offence,  in  turn,  was  not  due  to 

3 


4  LOST  FACE 

the  mere  pain  he  must  endure,  but  to  the  sorry 
spectacle  the  pain  would  make  of  him.  He 
knew  that  he  would  pray,  and  beg,  and  entreat, 
even  as  Big  Ivan  and  the  others  that  had  gone 
before.  This  would  not  be  nice.  To  pass  out 
bravely  and  cleanly,  with  a  smile  and  a  jest  — 
ah !  that  would  have  been  the  way.  But  to 
lose  control,  to  have  his  soul  upset  by  the  pangs 
of  the  flesh,  to  screech  and  gibber  like  an  ape, 
to  become  the  veriest  beast  —  *k,  that  was 

what  was  so  terrible./ 
x  ""*^ 

There  had  been  no  chance  to  escape.     From 

the  beginning,  when  he  dreamed  the  fiery  dream 
of  Poland's  independence,  he  had  become  a 
puppet  in  the  hands  of  Fate.  From  the  be 
ginning,  at  Warsaw,  at  St.  Petersburg,  in  the 
Siberian  mines,  in  Kamtchatka,  on  the  crazy 
boats  of  the  fur-thieves,  Fate  had  been  driving 
him  to  this  end.  Without  doubt,  in  the  founda 
tions  of  the  world  was  graved  this  end  for  him  — 
for  him,  who  was  so  fine  and  sensitive,  whose 
nerves  scarcely  sheltered  under  his  skin,  who 
was  a  dreamer,  and  a  poet,  and  an  artist.  Be 
fore  he  was  dreamed  of,  it  had  been  determined 


He  sat  in  the  snow,  arms  tied  behind  him. 


LOST   FACE  5 

that  the  quivering  bundle  of  sensitiveness  that 
constituted  him  should  be  doomed  to  live  in 
raw  and  howling  savagery,  and  to  die  in  this  far 
land  of  night,  in  this  dark  place  beyond  the  last 
boundaries  of  the  world. 

/_He  sighed.  So  that  thing  before  him  was  Big 
Ivan  —  Big  Ivan  the  giant,  the  man  without 
nerves,  the  man  of  iron,  the  Cossack  turned 
freebooter  of  the  seas,  who  was  as  phlegmatic 
as  an  ox,  with  a  nervous  system  so  low  that  what 
was  pain  to  ordinary  men  was  scarcely  a  tickle 
to  him.  Well;  well,  trust  these  Nulato  Indians 
to  find  Big  Ivan's  nerves  and  trace  them  to  the 
roots  of  his  quivering  soul.  They  were  cer 
tainly  doing  it.  It  was  inconceivable  that  a 
man  could  suffer  so  much  and  yet  live.  Big 
Ivan  was  paying  for  his  low  order  of  nerves. 
Already  he  had  lasted  twice  as  long  as  any  of 
the  others. 

Subienkow  felt  that  he  could  not  stand  the 
Cossack's  sufferings  much  longer.  Why  didn't 
Ivan  die  ?  He  would  go  mad  if  that  screaming 
did  not  cease.  But  when  it  did  cease,  his  turn 
would  come.  And  there  was  Yakaga  awaiting 


6  LOST  FACE 

him,  too,  grinning  at  him  even  now  in  antici 
pation  —  Yakaga,  whom  only  last  week  he  had 
kicked  out  of  the  fort,  and  upon  whose  face  he 
had  laid  the  lash  of  his  dog-whip.  Yakaga 
would  attend  to  him.  Doubtlessly  Yakaga  was 
saving  for  him  more  refined  tortures,  more 
exquisite  nerve-racking.j  Ah !  that  must  have 
been  a  good  one,  from  the  way  Ivan  screamed. 
The  squaws  bending  over  him  stepped  back 
with  laughter  and  clapping  of  hands.  Subien- 
kow  saw  the  monstrous  thing  that  had  been  per 
petrated,  and  began  to  laugh  hysterically.  The 
Indians  looked  at  him  in  wonderment  that  he 
should  laugh.  But  Subienkow  could  not  stop. 
This  would  never  do.  He  controlled  him 
self,  the  spasmodic  twitchings  slowly  dying 
away.^  He  strove  to  think  of  other  things/and 
began  reading  back  in  his  own  life.  He  re 
membered  his  mother  and  his  father,  and  the 
little  spotted  pony,  and  the  French  tutor  who 
had  taught  him  dancing  and  sneaked  him  an 
old  worn  copy  of  Voltaire.  Once  more  he  saw 
Paris,  and  dreary  London,  and  gay  Vienna, 
and  Rome.  And  once  more  he  saw  that  wild 


LOST  FACE  7 

group  of  youths  who  had  dreamed,  even  as  he, 
the  dream  of  an  independent  Poland  with  a 
king  of  Poland  on  the  throne  at  Warsaw. 
Ah,  there  it  was  that  the  long  trail  began. 
Well,  he  had  lasted  longest.  One  by  one, 
beginning  with  the  two  executed  at  St. 
Petersburg,  he  took  up  the  count  of  the  pass 
ing  of  those  brave  spirits.  Here  one  had 
been  beaten  to  death  by  a  jailer,  and  there,  on 
that  blood-stained  highway  of  the  exiles,  where 
they  had  marched  for  endless  months,  beaten 
and  maltreated  by  their  Cossack  guards,  an 
other  had  dropped  by  the  way.  Always  it 
had  been  savagery  —  brutal,  bestial  savagery. 
They  had  died  —  of  fever,  in  the  mines,  under 
the  knout.  The  last  two  had  died  after  the 
escape,  in  the  battle  with  the  Cossacks,  and  he 
alone  had  won  to  Kamtchatka  with  the  stolen 
papers  and  the  money  of  a  traveller  he  had 
left  lying  in  the  snow. 

It  had  been  nothing  but  savagery.  All  the 
years,  with  his  heart  in  studios,  and  theatres, 
and  courts,  he  had  been  hemmed  in  by  sav 
agery.  He  had  purchased  his  life  with  blood 


8  LOST   FACE 

Everybody  had  killed.  He  had  killed  that 
traveller  for  his  passports.  He  had  proved 
that  he  was  a  man  of  parts  by  duelling  with  two 
Russian  officers  on  a  single  day.  He  had  had 
to  prove  himself  in  order  to  win  to  a  place  among 
the  fur-thieves.  He  had  had  to  win  to  that 
place.  Behind  him  lay  the  thousand-years- 
long  road  across  all  Siberia  and  Russia.  He 
could  not  escape  that  way.  The  only  way  was 
ahead,  across  the  dark  and  icy  sea  of  Behring 
to  Alaska.  The  way  had  led  from  savagery 
to  deeper  savagery.  On  the  scurvy-rotten 
ships  of  the  fur-thieves,  out  of  food  and  out  of 
water,  buffeted  by  the  interminable  storms  of 
that  stormy  sea,  men  had  become  animals. 
Thrice  he  had  sailed  east  from  Kamtchatka. 
And  thrice,  after  all  manner  of  hardship  and 
suffering,  the  survivors  had  come  back  to  Kam 
tchatka.  There  had  been  no  outlet  for  escape, 
and  he  could  not  go  back  the  way  he  had  come, 
for  the  mines  and  the  knout  awaited  him. 

Again,  the  fourth  and  last  time,  he  had  sailed 
east.  He  had  been  with  those  who  first  found 
the  fabled  Seal  Islands;  but  he  had  not  re- 


LOST   FACE  9 

turned  with  them  to  share  the  wealth  of  furs 
in  the  mad  orgies  of  Kamtchatka.  He  had 
sworn  never  to  go  back.  He  knew  that  to 
win  to  those  dear  capitals  of  Europe  he  must 
go  on.  So  he  had  changed  ships  and  remained 
in  the  dark  new  land.  His  comrades  were 
Slavonian  hunters  and  Russian  adventurers, 
Mongols  and  Tartars  and  Siberian  aborigines; 
and  through  the  savages  of  the  new  world  they 
had  cut  a  path  of  blood.  They  had  massacred 
whole  villages  that  refused  to  furnish  the  fur- 
tribute;  and  they,  in  turn,  had  been  massacred 
by  ships'  companies.  He,  with  one  Finn,  had 
been  the  sole  survivors  of  such  a  company. 
They  had  spent  a  winter  of  solitude  and  star 
vation  on  a  lonely  Aleutian  isle,  and  their 
rescue  in  the  spring  by  another  fur-ship  had 
been  one  chance  in  a  thousand. 

But  always  the  terrible  savagery  had  hemmed 
him  in.  Passing  from  ship  to  ship,  and  ever 
refusing  to  return,  he  had  come  to  the  ship 
that  explored  south.  All  down  the  Alaska 
coast  they  had  encountered  nothing  but  hosts 
of  savages.  Every  anchorage  among  the  beet- 


io  LOST   FACE 

ling  islands  or  under  the  frowning  cliffs  of  the 
mainland  had  meant  a  battle  or  a  storm.  Either 
the  gales  blew,  threatening  destruction,  or  the 
war  canoes  came  off,  manned  by  howling  na 
tives  with  the  war-paint  on  their  faces,  who 
came  to  learn  the  bloody  virtues  of  the  sea- 
rovers'  gunpowder.  South,  south  they  had 
coasted,  clear  to  the  myth-land  of  California. 
Here,  it  was  said,  were  Spanish  adventurers 
who  had  fought  their  way  up  from  Mexico. 
He  had  had  hopes  of  those  Spanish  adventurers. 
Escaping  to  them,  the  rest  would  have  been 
easy  —  a  year  or  two,  what  did  it  matter  more 
or  less  —  and  he  would  win  to  Mexico,  then  a 
ship,  and  Europe  would  be  his.  But  they  had 
met  no  Spaniards.  Only  had  they  encountered 
the  same  impregnable  wall  of  savagery.  The 
denizens  of  the  confines  of  the  world,  painted 
for  war,  had  driven  them  back  from  the  shores. 
At  last,  when  one  boat  was  cut  off  and  every 
man  killed,  the  commander  had  abandoned 
the  quest  and  sailed  back  to  the  north. 

The    years    had    passed.     He    had    served 
under  Tebenkoff  when  Michaelovski  Redoubt 


LOST   FACE  ii 

was  built.  He  had  spent  two  years  in  the  Kus- 
kokwim  country.  Two  summers,  in  the  month 
of  June,  he  had  managed  to  be  at  the  head  of 
Kotzebue  Sound.  Here,  at  this  time,  the  tribes 
assembled  for  barter;  here  were  to  be  found 
spotted  deerskins  from  Siberia,  ivory  from  the 
Diomedes,  walrus  skins  from  the  shores  of  the 
Arctic,  strange  stone  lamps,  passing  in  trade 
from  tribe  to  tribe,  no  one  knew  whence,  and, 
once,  a  hunting-knife  of  English  make;  and 
here,  Subienkow  knew,  was  the  school  in  which 
to  learn  geography.  For  he  met  Eskimos  from 
Norton  Sound,  from  King  Island  and  St.  Law 
rence  Island,  from  Cape  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
Point  Barrow.  Such  places  had  other  names, 
and  their  distances  were  measured  in  days. 

It  was  a  vast  region  these  trading  savages 
came  from,  and  a  vaster  region  from  which, 
by  repeated  trade,  their  stone  lamps  and  that 
steel  knife  had  come.  Subienkow  bullied, 
and  cajoled,  and  bribed.  Every  far-journeyer 
or  strange  tribesman  was  brought  before  him. 
Perils  unaccountable  and  unthinkable  were 
mentioned,  as  well  as  wild  beasts,  hostile 


12  LOST   FACE 

tribes,  impenetrable  forests,  and  mighty  moun 
tain  ranges;  but  always  from  beyond  came  the 
rumor  and  the  tale  of  white-skinned  men, 
blue  of  eye  and  fair  of  hair,  who  fought  like 
devils  and  who  sought  always  for  furs.  They 
were  to  the  east  —  far,  far  to  the  east.  No  one 
had  seen  them.  It  was  the  word  that  had 
been  passed  along. 

It  was  a  hard  school.  One  could  not  learn 
geography  very  well  through  the  medium  of 
strange  dialects,  from  dark  minds  that  mingled 
fact  and  fable  and  that  measured  distances  by 
"sleeps"  that  varied  according  to  the  difficulty 
of  the  going.  But  at  last  came  the  whisper  that 
gave  Subienkow  courage.  In  the  east  lay  a 
great  river  where  were  these  blue-eyed  men. 
The  river  was  called  the  Yukon.  South  of 
Michaelovski  Redoubt  emptied  another  great 
river  which  the  Russians  knew  as  the  Kwikpak. 
These  two  rivers  were  one,  ran  the  whisper. 

Subienkow  returned  to  Michaelovski.  For 
a  year  he  urged  an  expedition  up  the  Kwikpak. 
Then  arose  Malakoff,  the  Russian  half-breed, 
to  lead  the  wildest  and  most  ferocious  of  the 


LOST   FACE  13 

hell's  broth  of  mongrel  adventurers  who  had 
crossed  from  Kamtchatka.  Subienkow  was 
his  lieutenant.  They  threaded  the  mazes  of 
the  great  delta  of  the  Kwikpak,  picked  up  the 
first  low  hills  on  the  northern  bank,  and  for 
half  a  thousand  miles,  in  skin  canoes  loaded  to 
the  gunwales  with  trade-goods  and  ammunition, 
fought  their  way  against  the  five-knot  current 
of  a  river  that  ran  from  two  to  ten  miles  wide  in 
a  channel  many  fathoms  deep.  MalakofF  de 
cided  to  build  the  fort  at  Nulato.  Subienkow 
urged  to  go  farther.  But  he  quickly  reconciled 
himself  to  Nulato.  The  long  winter  was 
coming  on.  It  would  be  better  to  wait.  Early 
the  following  summer,  when  the  ice  was  gone, 
he  would  disappear  up  the  Kwikpak  and  work 
his  way  to  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's  posts. 
MalakofF  had  never  heard  the  whisper  that  the 
Kwikpak  was  the  Yukon,  and  Subienkow  did 
not  tell  him. 

Came  the  building  of  the  fort.  It  was  en 
forced  labor.  The  tiered  walls  of  logs  arose 
to  the  sighs  and  groans  of  the  Nulato  Indians. 
The  lash  was  laid  upon  their  backs,  and  it  was 


14  LOST   FACE 

the  iron  hand  of  the  freebooters  of  the  sea  that 
laid  on  the  lash.  There  were  Indians  that  ran 
away,  and  when  they  were  caught  they  were 
brought  back  and  spread-eagled  before  the  fort, 
where  they  and  their  tribe  learned  the  efficacy 
of  the  knout.  Two  died  under  it;  others  were 
injured  for  life;  and  the  rest  took  the  lesson  to 
heart  and  ran  away  no  more.  The  snow  was 
flying  ere  the  fort  was  finished,  and  then  it  was 
the  time  for  furs.  A  heavy  tribute  was  laid 
upon  the  tribe.  Blows  and  lashings  con 
tinued,  and  that  the  tribute  should  be  paid, 
the  women  and  children  were  held  as  hostages 
and  treated  with  the  barbarity  that  only  the 
fur-thieves  knew. 

*Well,  it  had  been  a  sowing  of  blood,  and  now 
was  come  the  harvest.  The  fort  was  gone. 
In  the  light  of  its  burning,  half  the  fur-thieves 
had  been  cut  down.  The  other  half  had  passed 
under  the  torture.  {.Only  Subienkow  remained, 
or  Subienkow  and  Big  Ivan,  if  that  whimper 
ing,  moaning  thing  in  the  snow  could  be  called 
Big  Ivan.  Subienkow  caught  Yakaga  grinning 
at  him.  There  was  no  gainsaying  Yakaga. 


LOST  FACE  15 

The  mark  of  the  lash  was  still  on  his  face. 
After  all,  Subienkow  could  not  blame  him,  but 
he  disliked  the  thought  of  what  Yakaga  would 
do  to  him.  He  thought  of  appealing  to  Maka- 
muk,  the  head-chief;  but  his  judgment  told 
him  that  such  appeal  was  useless.  Then,  too, 
he  thought  of  bursting  his  bonds  and  dying 
fighting.  Such  an  end  would  be  quick.  But 
he  could  not  break  his  bonds.  Caribou  thongs 
were  stronger  than  he.  Still  devising,  another 
thought  came  to  him.  He  signed  for  Makamuk, ) 
and  that  an  interpreter  who  knew  the  coast 
dialect  should  be  brought. 
£f  Oh,  Makamuk,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  minded 
to  die.  I  am  a  great  man,  and  it  were  foolish 
ness  for  me  to  die.  In  truth,  I  shall  not  die. 
I  am  not  like  these  other  carrion." 

He  looked  at  the  moaning  thing  that  had  once 
been  Big  Ivan,  and  stirred  it  contemptuously 
with  his  toe. 

"  I  am  too  wise  to  die.  --Behold,  I  have  a  great 
medicine.  I  alone  know  this  medicine.  Since 
I  am  not  going  to  die,  I  shall  exchange  this 
medicine  with  you." 


1 6  LOST   FACE 

"What  is  this  medicine?"  Makamuk  de 
manded. 

"It  is  a  strange  medicine." 

Subienkow  debated  with  himself  for  a  mo 
ment,  *#S*rf  loath  to  part  with  the  secret. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  A  little  bit  of  this  medicine 
rubbed  on  the  skin  makes  the  skin  hard  like  a 
rock,  hard  like  iron,  so  that  no  cutting  weapon 
can  cut  it.  The  strongest  blow  of  a  cutting 
weapon  is  a  vain  thing  against  it.  A  bone 
knife  becomes  like  a  piece  of  mud;  and  it  will 
turn  the  edge  of  the  iron  knives  we  have  brought 
among  you.  What  will  you  give  me  for  the 

secret  of  the  medicine  ?" 

0n» 

"I  will  give  you  your  life,"  Makamuk  nrade 
answer  through  the  interpreter. 

Subienkow  laughed  scornfully. 

"And  you  shall  be  a  slave  in  my  house  until 
you  die." 

The  Pole  laughed  more  scornfully 7 

"Untie  my  hands  and  feet  and  let  us  talk," 
he  said. 

The  chief  made  the  sign;  and  when  he  was 
loosed  Subienkow  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it. 


LOST  FACE  17 

"This  is  foolish  talk,"  said  Makamuk. 
"There  is  no  such  medicine.  It  cannot  be. 
A  cutting  edge  is  stronger  than  any  medicine." 

The  chief  was  incredulous,  and  yet  he  wavered. 
He  had  seen  too  many  deviltries  of  fur-thieves 
that  worked.  He  could  not  wholly  doubt. 

£^I  will  give  you  your  life;    but  you  shall  not 
be  a  slave,"  he  announced. 

"More  than  that." 

Subienkow  pl^yprl  his  game  as  roolty  as  if  he 
were  bartering  for  a  foxskin. 

"It  is  a  very  great  medicine.  It  has  saved 
my  life  many  times.  I  want  a  sled  and  dogs, 
and  six  of  your  hunters  to  travel  with  me  down 
the  river  jm<l  give  me  safety  to  one  day's  sleep 
from  Mtdraeiovski  Redotibt." 

"You  must  live  here,  and  teach  us  all  of  your 
deviltries,"  was  the  reply. 

Subienkow  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  re 
mained  silent.  He  blew  cigarette  smoke  out  on 
the  icy  air,J  and  curiously  regarded  what  re 
mained  of  the  big  Cossack. 

"That  scar!"  Makamuk  said  suddenly, 
pointing  to  the  Pole's  neck,  where  a  livid  mark 


i 8  LOST   FACE 

advertised  the  slash  of  a  knife  in  a  Kamtchatkan 
brawl.  "The  medicine  is  not  good.  The 
cutting  edge  was  stronger  than  the  medicine." 

"  It  was  a  strong  man  that  drove  the  stroke." 
(Subienkow  considered.)  "Stronger  than  you, 
stronger  than  your  strongest  hunter,  stronger 
than  he." 

Again,  with  the  toe  of  his  moccasin,  he 
touched  the  Cossack  —  a  grisly  spectacle,  no 
longer  conscious  —  yet  in  whose  dismembered 
body  the  pain-racked  life  clung  and  was  loath 
to  go. 

"Also,  the  medicine  was  weak.  For  at  that 
place  there  were  no  berries  of  a  certain  kind,  of 
which  I  see  you  have  plenty  in  this  country. 
The  medicine  here  will  be  strong." 
£7"!  will  let  you  go  down  river,"  said  Maka- 
muk;  "and  the  sled  and  the  dogs  and  the  six 
hunters  to  give  you  safety  shall  be  yours. I!/ 

"You  are  slow,"  was  the  cool  rejoinder. 
"You  have  committed  an  offence  against  my 
medicine  in  that  you  did  not  at  once  accept 
my  terms.  Behold,  I  now  demand  more.  I 
want  one  hundred  beaver  skins."  (Makamuk 


LOST   FACE  19 

sneered.)  "I  want  one  hundred  pounds  of 
dried  fish."  (Makamuk  nodded,  for  fish  were 
plentiful  and  cheap.)  "I  want  two  sleds  —  one 
for  me  and  one  for  my  furs  and  fish.  And  my 
rifle  must  be  returned  to  me.  If  you  do  not 
like  the  price,  in  a  little  while  the  price  will 
grow." 

Yakaga  whispered  to  the  chief. 
/^But  how  can  I  know  your  medicine  is  true 
medicine?"   Makamuk  asked^ 

"It  is  very  easy.  First,  I  shall  go  into  the 
woods  - 

Again  Yakaga  whispered  to  Makamuk,  who 
made  a  suspicious  dissent. 

"You  can  send  twenty  hunters  with  me," 
Subicnkow  wcnt-on.  "You  see,  I  must  get  the 
berries  and  the  roots  with  which  to  make 
the  medicine.  Then,  when  you  have  brought 
die  Lw&  sleds  and  loaded  on  them  the  fish  and 
the  beaver  skins  and/me  rifle,  and  when  you 
have  told  oft  the  six  hunters  who  will  go  with 
me  —  then,  when  all  is  ready,  I  will  rub  the 
medicine  on  my  neck,  so,  and  lay  my  neck 
there  on  that  log.  Then  can  your  strongest 


20  LOST   FACE 

hunter  take  the  axe  and  strike  three  times  on 
my  neck.  You  yourself  can  strike  the  three 
times." 

Makamuk  stood  with  gaping  mouth,  drinking 
in  this  latest  and  most  wonderful  magic  of  the 
fur- thieves. 

"  BuT  first,"  ~T*te Pole  added  hastily,  "be 
tween  each  blow  I  must  put  on  fresh  medicine. 
The  axe  is  heavy  and  sharp,  and  I  want  no 
mistakes." 

"All  that  you  have  asked    shall  be  yours,"/ 
Makamuk  cried  in  a  rush  of  acceptance.      "  Pro 
ceed  to  make  your  medicine." 

Subienkow  concealed  his  elation.  He  was 
playing  a  desperate  game,  and  there  must  be 
no  slips.  He  spoke  arrogantly. 

"You  have  been  slow.  My  medicine  is 
offended.  To  make  the  offence  clean  you 
must  give  me  your  daughter." 

He  pointed  to  the  girl,  an  unwholesome 
creature,  with  a  cast  in  one  eye  and  a  bristling 
wolf-tooth.  Makamuk  was  angry,  but  the 
Pole  remained  imperturbable,  rolling  and  light 
ing  another  cigarette. 


LOST   FACE  21 

"Make  haste,"  he  threatened.  "If  you  are 
not  quick,  I  shall  demand  yet  more." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  dreary  north- 
land  scene  faded  from  before  him,  and  he  saw 
once  more  his  native  land,  and  France,  and, 
once,  as  he  glanced  at  the  wolf-toothed  girl,  he 
remembered  another  girl,  a  singer  and  a  dancer, 
whom  he  had  known  when  first  as  a  youth  he 
came  to  Paris. 

"What  do  you  want  with  the  girl?"  Maka- 
muk  asked. 

"To  go  down  the  river  with  me."  Subien- 
kow  glanced  her  over  critically.  "She  will 
make  a  good  wife,  and  it  is  an  honor  worthy 
of  my  medicine  to  be  married  to  your  blood." 

Again  he  remembered  the  singer  and  dancer 
and  hummed  aloud  a  song  she  had  taught  him. 
He  lived  the  old  life  over,  but  in  a  detached, 
impersonal  sort  of  way,  looking  at  the  memory- 
pictures  of  his  own  life  as  if  they  were  pictures 
in  a  book  of  anybody's  life.  The  chiefs  voice, 
abruptly  breaking  the  silence,  startled  him. 

"It  shall  be  done,"  said  Makamuk.  "The 
girl  shall  go  down  the  river  with  you.  But 


22  LOST   FACE 

be  it  understood  that  I  myself  strike  the  three 
blows  with  the  axe  on  your  neck." 

"  But  each  time  I  shall  put  on  the  medicine," 
Subienkow  answered,  with  a  show  of  ill-con 
cealed  anxiety. 

"You  shall  put  the  medicine  on  between  each 
blow.  Here  are  the  hunters  who  shall  see  you 
do  not  escape.  (Go  into  the  forest  and  gather 
your  medicine.^7 

Makamuk  had  been  convinced  of  the  worth 
of  the  medicine  by  the  Pole's  rapacity.  Surely 
nothing  less  than  the  greatest  of  medicines 
could  enable  a  man  in  the  shadow  of  death  to 
stand  up  and  drive  an  old-woman's  bargain. 

"  Besides,"  whispered  Yakaga,  when  the  Pole, 
with  his  guard,  had  disappeared  among  the 
spruce  trees,  "when  you  have  learned  the 
medicine  you  can  easily  destroy  him." 

"But  how  can  I  destroy  him?"  Makamuk 
argued.  "His  medicine  will  not  let  me  destroy 
him." 

"There  will  be  some  part  where  he  has  not 
rubbed  the  medicine,"  was  Yakaga's  reply. 
"We  will  destroy  him  through  that  part.  It 


LOST   FACE  23 

may  be  his  ears.  Very  well;  we  will  thrust  a 
spear  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other.  Or  it  may 
be  his  eyes.  Surely  the  medicine  will  be  much 
too  strong  to  rub  on  his  eyes." 

The  chief  nodded.  "  You  are  wise,  Yakaga. 
If  he  possesses  no  other  devil-things,  we  will 
then  destroy  him." 

(^Subienkow  did  not  waste  time  in  gathering 
the  ingredients  for  his  medicine.  He  selected 
whatsoever  came  to  hand  ~s«eh  as  spruce 
needles,  the  inner  bark  of  the  willow,  a  strip 
of  birch  bark,  and  a  quantity  of  moss-berries, 
which  he  made  the  hunters  dig  up  for  him  from 
beneath  the  snow.  A  few  frozen  roots  com 
pleted  his  supply,  and  he  led  the  way  back  to 
camp. 

Makamuk  and  Yakaga  crouched  beside  him, 
noting  the  quantities  and  kinds  of  the  ingredients 
he  dropped  into  the  pot  of  boiling  water. 

''You  must  be  careful  that  the  moss-berries 
go  in  first,"  he  explained./ 

"And  —  oh,  yes,  one  other  thing  —  the  finger 
of  a  man.  Here,  Yakaga,  let  me  cut  off  your 
finger." 


24  LOST   FACE 

But  Yakaga  put  his  hands  behind  him  and 
scowled. 

"Just  a  small  finger,"  Subienkow  pleaded. 

"Yakaga,  give  him  your  finger,"  Makamuk 
commanded. 

"There  be  plenty  of  fingers  lying  around," 
Yakaga  grunted,  indicating  the  human  wreck 
age  in  the  snow  of  the  score  of  persons  who  had 
been  tortured  to  death. 

"It  must  be  the  finger  of  a  live  man,"  the 
Pole  objected. 

"Then  shall  you  have  the  finger  of  a  live  man." 
Yakaga  strode  over  to  the  Cossack  and  sliced  off 
a  finger. 

"He  is  not  yet  dead,"  he  announced,  fling 
ing  the  bloody  trophy  in  the  snow  at  the  Pole's 
feet.  "Also,  it  is  a  good  finger,  because  it  is 
large." 

Subienkow  dropped  it  into  the  fire  under  the 
pot  and  began  to  sing.  It  was  a  French  love- 
song  that  with  great  solemnity  he  sang  into  the 
brew. 

"Without  these  words  I  utter  into  it,  the 
medicine  is  worthless,"  he  explained.  "The 


LOST  FACE  25 

words    are   the   chiefest   strength    of    it.      Be 
hold,  it  is  ready/' 

"Name  the  words  slowly,  that  I  may  know 
them,"  Makamuk  commanded. 

"Not  until  after  the  test.  When  the  axe 
flies  back  three  times  from  my  neck,  then  will 
I  give  you  the  secret  of  the  words." 

"But  if  the  medicine  is  not  good  medicine?" 
Makamuk  queried  anxiously. 

Subienkow  turned  upon  him  wrathfully. 

"My  medicine  is-  always  good.  However,  if 
it  is  not  good,  then  do  by  me  as  you  have  done 
to  the  others.  Cut  me  up  a  bit  at  a  time,  even 
as  you  have  cut  him  up."  He  pointed  to  the 
Cossack.  J  "The  medicine  is  now  cool.  Thus, 
I  rub  it  on  my  neck,  saying^his  further  medi 
cine."  <^2c^ju  -<+»**+'*- 

tjVith  great  gravity  he  slowly  intoned  a  line 
of-the-" Marseillaise,"  at  the  same  time  rubbing 
the  villainous  brew  thoroughly  into  his  neck./ 

An  outcry  interrupted  his  play-acting.  The 
giant  Cossack,  with  a  last  resurgence  of  his 
tremendous  vitality,  had  arisen  to  his  knees. 
Laughter  and  cries  of  surprise  and  applause 


26  LOST  FACE 

arose  from  the  Nulatos,  as  Big  Ivan  began 
flinging  himself  about  in  the  snow  with  mighty 
spasms. 

Subienkow  was  made  sick  by  the  sight,  but 
he  mastered  his  qualms  and  made  believe  to  be 
angry. 

"This  will  not  do,"  he  said.  "Finish  him, 
and  then  we  will  make  the  test.  Here,  you, 
Yakaga,  see  that  his  noise  ceases." 

While  this  was  being  done,  Subienkow 
turned  to  Makamuk. 

(^"And  remember,  you  are  to  strike  hard. 
This  is  not  baby-work.  Here,  take  the  axe 
and  strike  the  log,  so  that  I  can  see  you  strike 
like  a  man." 

Makamuk  obeyed,  striking  twice,  precisely 
and  with  vigor,  cutting  out  a  large  chip. 

"It  is  well."  Subienkow  looked  about  him 
at  the  circle  of  savage  faces  that  somehow 
seemed  to  symbolize  the  wall  of  savagery  that 
4twd  hemmed  him  a-b-atrrerer  since  the  Czar's 
police  had  first  arrested  him  in  Warsaw.  "Take 
your  axe,  Makamuk,  and  stand  so.  I  shall 
lie  down.  When  I  raise  my  hand,  strike,  and 


w 


"  '  I  laugh  at  you  and  your  strength.     Strike,  and  strike  hard.' " 


LOST  FACE  27 

strike  with  all  your  might.  And  be  careful 
that  no  one  stands  behind  you.  The  medicine 
is  good,  and  the  axe  may  bounce  from  off  my 
neck  and  right  out  of  your  hands." 

He  looked  at  the  two  sleds,  with  the  dogs  in 
harness,  loaded  with  furs  and  fish.  His  rifle 
lay  on  top  of  the  beaver  skins.  The  six  hun 
ters  who  were  to  act  as  his  guard  stood  by 
the  sleds.>r/ 

"Where  is  the  girl?"  the  Pole  demanded. 
"  Bring  her  up  to  the  sleds  before  the  test  goes 


on." 


When  this  had  been  carried  out,  \Subien- 
kow  lay  down  in  the  snow,  resting  his  head  on 
the  log  like  a  tired  child  about  to  sleep.. 7  He 
had  lived  so  many  dreary  years  that  he  was 
indeed  tired. 

/"I  laugh  at  you  and  your  strength,  O  Maka- 
muk,"  he  said.     "Strike,  and  strike  hard." 

He  lifted  his  hand.  Makamuk  swung  the 
axe,  a  broadaxe  for  the  squaring  of  logs.  The 
bright  steel  flashed  through  the  frosty  air, 
poised  for  a  perceptible  instant  above  Maka- 
muk's  head,  then  descended  upon  Subienkow's 


28  LOST  FACE 

bare  neck.  Clear  through  flesh  and  bone  it 
cut  its  way,  biting  deeply  into  the  log  beneath. 
The  amazed  savages  saw  the  head  bounce  a  yard 
away  from  the  blood-spouting  trunk. 

There  was  a  great  bewilderment  and  silence, 
while  slowly  it  began  to  dawn  in  their  minds 
that  there  had  been  no  medicine.  The  fur- 
thief  had  outwitted  them.  Alone,  of  all  their 
prisoners,  he  had  escaped  the  torture.  That 
had  been  the  stake  for  which  he  played.  A 
great  roar  of  laughter  went  up.  Makamuk 
bowed  his  head  in  shame.  The  fur-thief  had 
fooled  him.  He  had  lost  face  before  all  his 
people.^/  Still  they  continued  to  roar  out  their 
laughter.  Makamuk  turned,  and  with  bowed 
head  stalked  away.  He  knew  that  thenceforth 
he  would  be  no  longer  known  as  Makamuk. 
He  would  be  Lost  Face;  the  record  of  his 
shame  would  be  with  him  until  he  died;  and 
whenever  the  tribes  gathered  in  the  spring  for 
the  salmon,  or  in  the  summer  for  the  trading, 
the  story  would  pass  back  and  forth  across  the 
camp-fires  of  how  the  fur-thief  died  peaceably, 
at  a  single  stroke,  by  the  hand  of  Lost  Face. 


LOST  FACE  29 

"Who  was  Lost  Face  ?"  he  could  hear,  in  an 
ticipation,  some  insolent  young  buck  demand. 
"Oh,  Lost  Face,"  would  be  the  answer,  "he 
who  once  was  Makamuk  in  the  days  before  he 
cut  off  the  fur-thiePs  head." 


TRUST 


TRUST 

ALL  lines  had  been  cast  off,  and  the 
Seattle  No.  4  was  pulling  slowly  out 
from  the  shore.  Her  decks  were  piled 
high  with  freight  and  baggage,  and  swarmed 
with  a  heterogeneous  company  of  Indians, 
dogs,  and  dog-mushers,  prospectors,  traders, 
and  homeward-bound  gold-seekers.  A  goodly 
portion  of  Dawson  was  lined  up  on  the  bank, 
saying  good-by.  As  the  gang-plank  came  in  and 
the  steamer  nosed  into  the  stream,  the  clamor 
of  farewell  became  deafening.  Also,  in  that 
eleventh  moment,  everybody  began  to  remember 
final  farewell  messages  and  to  shout  them  back 
and  forth  across  the  widening  stretch  of  water. 
Louis  Bondell,  curling  his  yellow  mustache 
with  one  hand  and  languidly  waving  the  other 
hand  to  his  friends  on  shore,  suddenly  remem 
bered  something  and  sprang  to  the  rail. 
"Oh,  Fred!"  he  bawled.  "Oh,  Fred  1'" 

D  33 


34  TRUST 

The  "Fred"  desired  thrust  a  strapping  pair  of 
shoulders  through  the  forefront  of  the  crowd  on 
the  bank  and  tried  to  catch  Louis  Bondell's  mes 
sage.  The  latter  grew  red  in  the  face  with  vain 
vociferation.  Still  the  water  widened  between 
steamboat  and  shore. 

"Hey,  you,  Captain  Scott!"  he  yelled  at 
the  pilot-house.  "Stop  the  boat!" 

The  gongs  clanged,  and  the  big  stern  wheel 
reversed,  then  stopped.  All  hands  on  steam 
boat  and  on  bank  took  advantage  of  this  res 
pite  to  exchange  final,  new,  and  imperative 
farewells.  More  futile  than  ever  was  Louis 
Bondell's  effort  to  make  himself  heard.  The 
Seattle  No.  4  lost  way  and  drifted  down-stream, 
and  Captain  Scott  had  to  go  ahead  and  reverse 
a  second  time.  His  head  disappeared  inside 
the  pilot-house,  coming  into  view  a  moment 
later  behind  a  big  megaphone. 

Now  Captain  Scott  had  a  remarkable  voice, 
and  the  "Shut  up !"  he  launched  at  the  crowd 
on  deck  and  on  shore  could  have  been  heard 
at  the  top  of  Moosehide  Mountain  and  as  far  as 
Klondike  City.  This  official  remonstrance  from 


TRUST  35 

the  pilot-house  spread  a  film  of  silence  over 
the  tumult. 

"Now,  what  do  you  want  to  say?"  Captain 
Scott  demanded. 

"Tell  Fred  Churchill  —  he's  on  the  bank 
there  —  tell  him  to  go  to  Macdonald.  It's 
in  his  safe  —  a  small  gripsack  of  mine.  Tell 
him  to  get  it  and  bring  it  out  when  he  comes." 

In  the  silence  Captain  Scott  bellowed  the 
message  ashore  through  the  megaphone:  — 

"You,  Fred  Churchill,  go  to  Macdonald  — 
in  his  safe  —  small  gripsack  —  belongs  to  Louis 
Bondell  —  important !  Bring  it  out  when  you 
come  !  Got  it  ? " 

Churchill  waved  his  hand  in  token  that  he 
had  got  it.  In  truth,  had  Macdonald,  half  a 
mile  away,  opened  his  window,  he'd  have  got 
it,  too.  The  tumult  of  farewell  rose  again, 
the  gongs  clanged,  and  the  Seattle  No.  4  went 
ahead,  swung  out  into  the  stream,  turned  on 
her  heel,  and  headed  down  the  Yukon,  Bondell 
and  Churchill  waving  farewell  and  mutual 
affection  to  the  last. 

That  was  in  midsummer.     In  the  fall  of  the 


36  TRUST 

year,  the  W.  H.  Willis  started  up  the  Yukon 
with  two  hundred  homeward-bound  pilgrims 
on  board.  Among  them  was  Churchill.  In 
his  state-room,  in  the  middle  of  a  clothes-bag, 
was  Louis  BondelPs  grip.  It  was  a  small, 
stout  leather  affair,  and  its  weight  of  forty 
pounds  always  made  Churchill  nervous  when 
he  wandered  too  far  from  it.  The  man  in  the 
adjoining  state-room  had  a  treasure  of  gold- 
dust  hidden  similarly  in  a  clothes-bag,  and  the 
pair  of  them  ultimately  arranged  to  stand  watch 
and  watch.  While  one  went  down  to  eat,  the 
other  kept  an  eye  on  the  two  state-room  doors. 
When  Churchill  wanted  to  take  a  hand  at 
whist,  the  other  man  mounted  guard,  and 
when  the  other  man  wanted  to  relax  his  soul, 
Churchill  read  four-months'-old  newspapers 
on  a  camp  stool  between  the  two  doors. 

There  were  signs  of  an  early  winter,  and  the 
question  that  was  discussed  from  dawn  till 
dark,  and  far  into  the  dark,  was  whether  they 
would  get  out  before  the  freeze-up  or  be  com 
pelled  to  abandon  the  steamboat  and  tramp 
out  over  the  ice.  There  were  irritating  delays. 


TRUST  37 

Twice  the  engines  broke  down  and  had  to  be 
tinkered  up,  and  each  time  there  were  snow 
flurries  to  warn  them  of  the  imminence  of 
winter.  Nine  times  the  W.  H.  Willis  essayed 
to  ascend  the  Five-Finger  Rapids  with  her  im 
paired  machinery,  and  when  she  succeeded,  she 
was  four  days  behind  her  very  liberal  schedule. 
The  question  that  then  arose  was  whether  or 
not  the  steamboat  Flora  would  wait  for  her 
above  the  Box  Canon.  The  stretch  of  water 
between  the  head  of  the  Box  Canon  and  the  foot 
of  the  White  Horse  Rapids  was  unnavigable 
for  steamboats,  and  passengers  were  trans 
shipped  at  that  point,  walking  around  the 
rapids  from  one  steamboat  to  the  other.  There 
were  no  telephones  in  the  country,  hence  no  way 
of  informing  the  waiting  Flora  that  the  Willis 
was  four  days  late,  but  coming. 

When  the  W.  H.  Willis  pulled  into  White 
Horse,  it  was  learned  that  the  Flora  had  waited 
three  days  over  the  limit,  and  had  departed 
only  a  few  hours  before.  Also,  it  was  learned 
that  she  would  tie  up  at  Tagish  Post  till  nine 
o'clock,  Sunday  morning.  It  was  then  four 


3S  TRUST 

o'clock,  Saturday  afternoon.  The  pilgrims 
called  a  meeting.  On  board  was  a  large  Peter 
borough  canoe,  consigned  to  the  police  post  at 
the  head  of  Lake  Bennett.  They  agreed  to  be 
responsible  for  it  and  to  deliver  it.  Next, 
they  called  for  volunteers.  Two  men  were 
needed  to  make  a  race  for  the  Flora.  A  score 
of  men  volunteered  on  the  instant.  Among  them 
was  Churchill,  such  being  his  nature  that  he 
volunteered  before  he  thought  of  Bondell's 
gripsack.  When  this  thought  came  to  him,  he 
began  to  hope  that  he  would  not  be  selected; 
but  a  man  who  had  made  a  name  as  captain  of 
a  college  foot-ball  eleven,  as  a  president  of  an 
athletic  club,  as  a  dog-musher  and  a  stampeder 
in  the  Yukon,  and,  moreover,  who  possessed 
such  shoulders  as  he,  had  no  right  to  avoid  the 
honor.  It  was  thrust  upon  him  and  upon  a 
gigantic  German,  Nick  Antonsen. 

While  a  crowd  of  the  pilgrims,  the  canoe  on 
their  shoulders,  started  on  a  trot  over  the  port 
age,  Churchill  ran  to  his  state-room.  He 
turned  the  contents  of  the  clothes-bag  on  the 
floor  and  caught  up  the  grip,  with  the  intention 


TRUST  39 

of  intrusting  it  to  the  man  next  door.  Then 
the  thought  smote  him  that  it  was  not  his  grip, 
and  that  he  had  no  right  to  let  it  out  of  his  own 
possession.  So  he  dashed  ashore  with  it  and 
ran  up  the  portage,  changing  it  often  from  one 
hand  to  the  other,  and  wondering  if  it  really 
did  not  weigh  more  than  forty  pounds. 

It  was  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon  when 
the  two  men  started.  The  current  of  the 
Thirty  Mile  River  was  so  strong  that  rarely 
could  they  use  the  paddles.  It  was  out  on  one 
bank  with  a  tow-line  over  the  shoulders,  stum 
bling  over  the  rocks,  forcing  a  way  through  the 
underbrush,  slipping  at  times  and  falling  into  the 
water,  wading  often  up  to  the  knees  and  waist; 
and  then,  when  an  insurmountable  bluff  was 
encountered,  it  was  into  the  canoe,  out  paddles, 
and  a  wild  and  losing  dash  across  the  current 
to  the  other  bank,  in  paddles,  over  the  side, 
and  out  tow-line  again.  It  was  exhausting  work. 
Antonsen  toiled  like  the  giant  he  was,  uncom 
plaining,  persistent,  but  driven  to  his  utmost 
by  the  powerful  body  and  indomitable  brain 
of  Churchill.  They  never  paused  for  rest.  It 


40  TRUST 

was  go,  go,  and  keep  on  going.  A  crisp  wind 
blew  down  the  river,  freezing  their  hands  and 
making  it  imperative,  from  time  to  time,  to 
beat  the  blood  back  into  the  numb  fingers. 

As  night  came  on,  they  were  compelled  to 
trust  to  luck.  They  fell  repeatedly  on  the  un- 
travelled  banks  and  tore  their  clothing  to  shreds 
in  the  underbrush  they  could  not  see.  Both 
men  were  badly  scratched  and  bleeding.  A 
dozen  times,  in  their  wild  dashes  from  bank 
to  bank,  they  struck  snags  and  were  capsized. 
The  first  time  this  happened,  Churchill  dived 
and  groped  in  three  feet  of  water  for  the  grip 
sack.  He  lost  half  an  hour  in  recovering  it, 
and  after  that  it  was  carried  securely  lashed  to 
the  canoe.  As  long  as  the  canoe  floated  it  was 
safe.  Antonsen  jeered  at  the  grip,  and  toward 
morning  began  to  curse  it;  but  Churchill 
vouchsafed  no  explanations. 

Their  delays  and  mischances  were  endless. 
On  one  swift  bend,  around  which  poured  a 
healthy  young  rapid,  they  lost  two  hours,  making 
a  score  of  attempts  and  capsizing  twice.  At 
this  point,  on  both  banks,  were  precipitous 


TRUST  41 

bluffs,  rising  out  of  deep  water,  and  along  which 
they  could  neither  tow  nor  pole,  while  they 
could  not  gain  with  the  paddles  against  the 
current.  At  each  attempt  they  strained  to  the 
utmost  with  the  paddles,  and  each  time,  with 
hearts  nigh  to  bursting  from  the  effort,  they 
were  played  out  and  swept  back.  They  suc 
ceeded  finally  by  an  accident.  In  the  swiftest 
current,  near  the  end  of  another  failure,  a 
freak  of  the  current  sheered  the  canoe  out  of 
Churchill's  control  and  flung  it  against  the  bluff. 
Churchill  made  a  blind  leap  at  the  bluff  and 
landed  in  a  crevice.  Holding  on  with  one  hand, 
he  held  the  swamped  canoe  with  the  other  till 
Antonsen  dragged  himself  out  of  the  water. 
Then  they  pulled  the  canoe  out  and  rested. 
A  fresh  start  at  this  crucial  point  took  them  by. 
They  landed  on  the  bank  above  and  plunged 
immediately  ashore  and  into  the  brush  with 
the  tow-line. 

Daylight  found  them  far  below  Tagish  Post. 
At  nine  o'clock  Sunday  morning  they  could 
hear  the  Flora  whistling  her  departure.  And 
when,  at  ten  o'clock,  they  dragged  themselves 


42  TRUST 

in  to  the  Post,  they  could  just  barely  see  the 
Flora  s  smoke  far  to  the  southward.  It  was  a 
pair  of  worn-out  tatterdemalions  that  Captain 
Jones  of  the  Mounted  Police  welcomed  and 
fed,  and  he  afterward  averred  that  they  pos 
sessed  two  of  the  most  tremendous  appetites 
he  had  ever  observed.  They  lay  down  and  slept 
in  their  wet  rags  by  the  stove.  At  the  end  of 
two  hours  Churchill  got  up,  carried  Bondell's 
grip,  which  he  had  used  for  a  pillow,  down  to 
the  canoe,  kicked  Antonsen  awake,  and  started 
in  pursuit  of  the  Flora. 

"There's  no  telling  what  might  happen  — 
machinery  break  down,  or  something,"  was 
his  reply  to  Captain  Jones's  expostulations. 
"I'm  going  to  catch  that  steamer  and  send  her 
back  for  the  boys." 

Tagish  Lake  was  white  with  a  fall  gale  that 
blew  in  their  teeth.  Big,  swinging  seas  rushed 
upon  the  canoe,  compelling  one  man  to  bail 
and  leaving  one  man  to  paddle.  Headway 
could  not  be  made.  They  ran  along  the  shal 
low  shore  and  went  overboard,  one  man  ahead 
on  the  tow-line,  the  other  shoving  on  the  canoe. 


TRUST  43 

They  fought  the  gale  up  to  their  waists  in  the  icy 
water,  often  up  to  their  necks,  often  over  their 
heads  and  buried  by  the  big,  crested  waves. 
There  was  no  rest,  never  a  moment's  pause  from 
the  cheerless,  heart-breaking  battle.  That 
night,  at  the  head  of  Tagish  Lake,  in  the  thick 
of  a  driving  snow-squall,  they  overhauled  the 
Flora.  Antonsen  fell  on  board,  lay  where  he 
had  fallen,  and  snored.  Churchill  looked  like 
a  wild  man.  His  clothes  barely  clung  to  him. 
His  face  was  iced  up  and  swollen  from  the  pro 
tracted  effort  of  twenty-four  hours,  while  his 
hands  were  so  swollen  that  he  could  not  close 
the  fingers.  As  for  his  feet,  it  was  an  agony 
to  stand  upon  them. 

The  captain  of  the  Flora  was  loath  to  go 
back  to  White  Horse.  Churchill  was  persist 
ent  and  imperative;  the  captain  was  stubborn. 
He  pointed  out  finally  that  nothing  was  to  be 
gained  by  going  back,  because  the  only  ocean 
steamer  at  Dyea,  the  Athenian,  was  to  sail  on 
Tuesday  morning,  and  that  he  could  not  make 
the  back  trip  to  White  Horse  and  bring  up  the 
stranded  pilgrims  in  time  to  make  the  connection. 


44  TRUST 

"What  time  does  the  Athenian  sail?" 
Churchill  demanded. 

"Seven  o'clock,  Tuesday  morning." 

"All  right/'  Churchill  said,  at  the  same  time 
kicking  a  tattoo  on  the  ribs  of  the  snoring  An- 
tonsen.  "You  go  back  to  White  Horse.  We'll 
go  ahead  and  hold  the  Athenian." 

Antonsen,  stupid  with  sleep,  not  yet  clothed 
in  his  waking  mind,  was  bundled  into  the 
canoe,  and  did  not  realize  what  had  happened 
till  he  was  drenched  with  the  icy  spray  of  a  big 
sea,  and  heard  Churchill  snarling  at  him  through 
the  darkness:  — 

fc  "  Paddle,   can't  you !     Do  you  want  to   be 
swamped  ?" 

Daylight  found  them  at  Caribou  Crossing, 
the  wind  dying  down,  and  Antonsen  too  far 
gone  to  dip  a  paddle.  Churchill  grounded  the 
canoe  on  a  quiet  beach,  where  they  slept.  He 
took  the  precaution  of  twisting  his  arm  under 
the  weight  of  his  head.  Every  few  minutes 
the  pain  of  the  pent  circulation  aroused  him, 
whereupon  he  would  look  at  his  watch  and 
twist  the  other  arm  under  his  head.  At  the 


After  that.  Churchill  fought  on  alone.' 


TRUST  45 

end  of  two  hours  he  fought  with  Antonsen  to 
rouse  him.  Then  they  started.  Lake  Ben 
nett,  thirty  miles  in  length,  was  like  a  mill-pond ; 
but,  halfway  across,  a  gale  from  the  south 
smote  them  and  turned  the  water  white.  Hour 
after  hour  they  repeated  the  struggle  on  Tagish, 
over  the  side,  pulling  and  shoving  on  the  canoe, 
up  to  their  waists  and  necks,  and  over  their 
heads,  in  the  icy  water;  toward  the  last  the 
good-natured  giant  played  completely  out. 
Churchill  drove  him  mercilessly;  but  when 
he  pitched  forward  and  bade  fair  to  drown  in 
three  feet  of  water,  the  other  dragged  him  into 
the  canoe.  After  that,  Churchill  fought  on 
alone,  arriving  at  the  police  post  at  the  head 
of  Bennett  in  the  early  afternoon.  He  tried  to 
help  Antonsen  out  of  the  canoe,  but  failed. 
He  listened  to  the  exhausted  man's  heavy  breath 
ing,  and  envied  him  when  he  thought  of  what  he 
himself  had  yet  to  undergo.  Antonsen  could 
lie  there  and  sleep;  but  he,  behind  time,  must 
go  on  over  mighty  Chilcoot  and  down  to  the  sea. 
The  real  struggle  lay  before  him,  and  he  almost 
regretted  the  strength  that  resided  in  his  frame 


46  TRUST 

because  of  the  torment  it  could  inflict  upon 
that  frame. 

Churchill  pulled  the  canoe  up  on  the  beach, 
seized  Bonders  grip,  and  started  on  a  limping 
dog-trot  for  the  police  post. 

"There's  a  canoe  down  there,  consigned  to 
you  from  Dawson,"  he  hurled  at  the  officer  who 
answered  his  knock.  "And  there's  a  man  in  it 
pretty  near  dead.  Nothing  serious ;  only  played 
out.  Take  care  of  him.  I've  got  to  rush. 
Good-by.  Want  to  catch  the  Athenian." 

A  mile  portage  connected  Lake  Bennett  and 
Lake  Linderman,  and  his  last  words  he  flung 
back  after  him  as  he  resumed  the  trot.  It  was 
a  very  painful  trot,  but  he  clenched  his  teeth 
and  kept  on,  forgetting  his  pain  most  of  the 
time  in  the  fervent  heat  with  which  he  regarded 
the  gripsack.  It  was  a  severe  handicap.  He 
swung  it  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  and  back 
again.  He  tucked  it  under  his  arm.  He 
threw  one  hanJ  over  the  opposite  shoulder,  and 
the  bag  bumped  and  pounded  on  his  back  as 
he  ran  along.  He  could  scarcely  hold  it  in  his 
bruised  and  swollen  fingers,  and  several  times 


TRUST  47 

he  dropped  it.  Once,  in  changing  from  one 
hand  to  the  other,  it  escaped  his  clutch  and  fell 
in  front  of  him,  tripped  him  up,  and  threw  him 
violently  to  the  ground. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  portage  he  bought  an  old 
set  of  pack-straps  for  a  dollar,  and  in  them  he 
swung  the  grip.  Also,  he  chartered  a  launch 
to  run  him  the  six  miles  to  the  upper  end  of 
Lake  Linderman,  where  he  arrived  at  four  in 
the  afternoon.  The  Athenian  was  to  sail  from 
Dyea  next  morning  at  seven.  Dyea  was  twenty- 
eight  miles  away,  and  between  towered  Chilcoot. 
He  sat  down  to  adjust  his  foot-gear  for  the  long 
climb,  and  woke  up.  He  had  dozed  the  instant 
he  sat  down,  though  he  had  not  slept  thirty 
seconds.  He  was  afraid  his  next  doze  might  be 
longer,  so  he  finished  fixing  his  foot-gear  stand 
ing  up.  Even  then  he  was  overpowered  for  a 
fleeting  moment.  He  experienced  the  flash  of 
unconciousness;  becoming  aware  of  it,  in  mid 
air,  as  his  relaxed  body  was  sinking  to  the  ground 
and  as  he  caught  himself  together,  he  stiffened  his 
muscles  with  a  spasmodic  wrench,  and  escaped 
the  fall.  The  sudden  jerk  back  to  consciousness 


48  TRUST 

left  him  sick  and  trembling.  He  beat  his  head 
with  the  heel  of  his  hand,  knocking  wakefulness 
into  the  numb  brain. 

Jack  Burns's  pack-train  was  starting  back 
light  for  Crater  Lake,  and  Churchill  was  in 
vited  to  a  mule.  Burns  wanted  to  put  the  grip 
sack  on  another  animal,  but  Churchill  held  on 
to  it,  carrying  it  on  his  saddle-pommel.  But  he 
dozed,  and  the  grip  persisted  in  dropping  off 
the  pommel,  one  side  or  the  other,  each  time 
wakening  him  with  a  sickening  start.  Then, 
in  the  early  darkness,  Churchill's  mule  brushed 
him  against  a  projecting  branch  that  laid  his 
cheek  open.  To  cap  it,  the  mule  blundered 
off  the  trail  and  fell,  throwing  rider  and  grip 
sack  out  upon  the  rocks.  After  that,  Churchill 
walked,  or  stumbled,  rather,  over  the  apology  for 
a  trail,  leading  the  mule.  Stray  and  awful 
odors,  drifting  from  each  side  the  trail,  told  of 
the  horses  that  had  died  in  the  rush  for  gold. 
But  he  did  not  mind.  He  was  too  sleepy.  By 
the  time  Long  Lake  was  reached,  however, 
he  had  recovered  from  his  sleepiness;  and  at 
Deep  Lake  he  resigned  the  gripsack  to  Burns. 


TRUST  49 

But  thereafter,  by  the  light  of  the  dim  stars,  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  Burns.  There  were  not  going 
to  be  any  accidents  with  that  bag. 

At  Crater  Lake  the  pack-train  went  into 
camp,  and  Churchill,  slinging  the  grip  on  his 
back,  started  the  steep  climb  for  the  summit. 
For  the  first  time,  on  that  precipitous  wall,  he 
realized  how  tired  he  was.  He  crept  and 
crawled  like  a  crab,  burdened  by  the  weight  of 
his  limbs.  A  distinct  and  painful  effort  of  will 
was  required  each  time  he  lifted  a  foot.  An 
hallucination  came  to  him  that  he  was  shod  with 
lead,  like  a  deep-sea  diver,  and  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  resist  the  desire  to  reach  down  and 
feel  the  lead.  As  for  Bondell's  gripsack,  it  was 
inconceivable  that  forty  pounds  could  weigh 
so  much.  It  pressed  him  down  like  a  moun 
tain,  and  he  looked  back  with  unbelief  to  the 
year  before,  when  he  had  climbed  that  same 
pass  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  on  his 
back.  If  those  loads  had  weighed  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  then  Bondell's  grip  weighed 
five  hundred. 

The  first  rise  of  the  divide  from  Crater  Lake 


50  TRUST 

was  across  a  small  glacier.  Here  was  a  well- 
defined  trail.  But  above  the  glacier,  which 
was  also  above  timber-line,  was  naught  but  a 
chaos  of  naked  rock  and  enormous  boulders. 
There  was  no  way  of  seeing  the  trail  in  the  dark 
ness,  and  he  blundered  on,  paying  thrice  the 
ordinary  exertion  for  all  that  he  accomplished. 
He  won  the  summit  in  the  thick  of  howling 
wind  and  driving  snow,  providentially  stum 
bling  upon  a  small,  deserted  tent,  into  which  he 
crawled.  There  he  found  and  bolted  some 
ancient  fried  potatoes  and  half  a  dozen  raw 
eggs. 

When  the  snow  ceased  and  the  wind  eased 
down,  he  began  the  almost  impossible  descent. 
There  was  no  trail,  and  he  stumbled  and  blun 
dered,  often  finding  himself,  at  the  last  moment, 
on  the  edge  of  rocky  walls  and  steep  slopes  the 
depth  of  which  he  had  no  way  of  judging. 
Part  way  down,  the  stars  clouded  over  again, 
and  in  the  consequent  obscurity  he  slipped  and 
rolled  and  slid  for  a  hundred  feet,  landing 
bruised  and  bleeding  on  the  bottom  of  a  large 
shallow  hole.  From  all  about  him  arose  the 


TRUST  51 

stench  of  dead  horses.  The  hole  was  handy 
to  the  trail,  and  the  packers  had  made  a  prac 
tice  of  tumbling  into  it  their  broken  and  dying 
animals.  The  stench  overpowered  him,  mak 
ing  him  deathly  sick,  and  as  in  a  nightmare 
he  scrambled  out.  Halfway  up,  he  recollected 
Bondell's  gripsack.  It  had  fallen  into  the  hole 
with  him;  the  pack-strap  had  evidently  broken, 
and  he  had  forgotten  it.  Back  he  went  into 
the  pestilential  charnel-pit,  where  he  crawled 
around  on  hands  and  knees  and  groped 
for  half  an  hour.  Altogether  he  encountered 
and  counted  seventeen  dead  horses  (and  one 
horse  still  alive  that  he  shot  with  his  revolver) 
before  he  found  Bondell's  grip.  Looking  back 
upon  a  life  that  had  not  been  without  valor  and 
achievement,  he  unhesitatingly  declared  to  him 
self  that  this  return  after  the  grip  was  the  most 
heroic  act  he  had  ever  performed.  So  heroic 
was  it  that  he  was  twice  on  the  verge  of  fainting 
before  he  crawled  out  of  the  hole. 

By  the  time  he  had  descended  to  the  Scales, 
the  steep  pitch  of  Chilcoot  was  past,  and  the  way 
became  easier.  Not  that  it  was  an  easy  way, 


52  TRUST 

however,  in  the  best  of  places;  but  it  became  a 
really  possible  trail,  along  which  he  could  have 
made  good  time  if  he  had  not  been  worn  out, 
if  he  had  had  light  with  which  to  pick  his  steps, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  Bonders  gripsack. 
To  him,  in  his  exhausted  condition,  it  was  the 
last  straw.  Having  barely  strength  to  carry 
himself  along,  the  additional  weight  of  the  grip 
was  sufficient  to  throw  him  nearly  every  time 
he  tripped  or  stumbled.  And  when  he  escaped 
tripping,  branches  reached  out  in  the  darkness, 
hooked  the  grip  between  his  shoulders,  and 
held  him  back. 

His  mind  was  made  up  that  if  he  missed  the 
Athenian  it  would  be  the  fault  of  the  gripsack. 
In  fact,  only  two  things  remained  in  his  con 
sciousness  —  Bondell's  grip  and  the  steamer. 
He  knew  only  those  two  things,  and  they  be 
came  identified,  in  a  way,  with  some  stern 
mission  upon  which  he  had  journeyed  and 
toiled  for  centuries.  He  walked  and  struggled 
on  as  in  a  dream.  As  part  of  the  dream  was 
his  arrival  at  Sheep  Camp.  He  stumbled  into 
a  saloon,  slid  his  shoulders  out  of  the  straps, 


TRUST  53 

and  started  to  deposit  the  grip  at  his  feet.  But 
it  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  struck  the  floor 
with  a  heavy  thud  that  was  not  unnoticed  by 
two  men  who  were  just  leaving.  Churchill 
drank  a  glass  of  whiskey,  told  the  barkeeper 
to  call  him  in  ten  minutes,  and  sat  down,  his 
feet  on  the  grip,  his  head  on  his  knees. 

So  badly  did  his  misused  body  stiffen,  that 
when  he  was  called  it  required  another  ten 
minutes  and  a  second  glass  of  whiskey  to  unbend 
his  joints  and  limber  up  the  muscles. 

"Hey  !  not  that  way  !"  the  barkeeper  shouted, 
and  then  went  after  him  and  started  him  through 
the  darkness  toward  Canyon  City.  Some  little 
husk  of  inner  consciousness  told  Churchill  that 
the  direction  was  right,  and,  still  as  in  a  dream, 
he  took  the  canon  trail.  He  did  not  know 
what  warned  him,  but  after  what  seemed 
several  centuries  of  travelling,  he  sensed  danger 
and  drew  his  revolver.  Still  in  the  dream,  he 
saw  two  men  step  out  and  heard  them  halt  him. 
His  revolver  went  off  four  times,  and  he  saw 
the  flashes  and  heard  the  explosions  of  their 
revolvers.  Also,  he  was  aware  that  he  had  been 


54  TRUST 

hit  in  the  thigh.  He  saw  one  man  go  down, 
and,  as  the  other  came  for  him,  he  smashed  him 
a  straight  blow  with  the  heavy  revolver  full  in 
the  face.  Then  he  turned  and  ran.  He  came 
from  the  dream  shortly  afterward,  to  find  him 
self  plunging  down  the  trail  at  a  limping  lope. 
His  first  thought  was  for  the  gripsack.  It  was 
still  on  his  back.  He  was  convinced  that  what 
had  happened  was  a  dream  till  he  felt  for  his 
revolver  and  found  it  gone.  Next  he  became 
aware  of  a  sharp  stinging  of  his  thigh,  and 
after  investigating,  he  found  his  hand  warm 
with  blood.  It  was  a  superficial  wound,  but 
it  was  incontestable.  He  became  wider  awake, 
and  kept  up  the  lumbering  run  to  Canyon 
City. 

He  found  a  man,  with  a  team  of  horses  and 
a  wagon,  who  got  out  of  bed  and  harnessed  up 
for  twenty  dollars.  Churchill  crawled  in  on  the 
wagon-bed  and  slept,  the  gripsack  still  on  his 
back.  It  was  a  rough  ride,  over  water-washed 
boulders  down  the  Dyea  Valley;  but  he  roused 
only  when  the  wagon  hit  the  highest  places. 
Any  altitude  of  his  body  above  the  wagon-bed 


TRUST  55 

of  less  than  a  foot  did  not  faze  him.  The  last 
mile  was  smooth  going,  and  he  slept  soundly. 

He  came  to  in  the  gray  dawn,  the  driver 
shaking  him  savagely  and  howling  into  his  ear 
that  the  Athenian  was  gone.  Churchill  looked 
blankly  at  the  deserted  harbor. 

"There's  a  smoke  over  at  Skaguay,"  the  man 
said. 

Churchill's  eyes  were  too  swollen  to  see  that 
far,  but  he  said:  "It's  she.  Get  me  a 
boat." 

The  driver  was  obliging,  and  found  a  skiff 
and  a  man  to  row  it  for  ten  dollars,  payment  in 
advance.  Churchill  paid,  and  was  helped  into 
the  skiff.  It  was  beyond  him  to  get  in  by  him 
self.  It  was  six  miles  to  Skaguay,  and  he  had 
a  blissful  thought  of  sleeping  those  six  miles. 
But  the  man  did  not  know  how  to  row,  and 
Churchill  took  the  oars  and  toiled  for  a  few  more 
centuries.  He  never  knew  six  longer  and  more 
excruciating  miles.  A  snappy  little  breeze 
blew  up  the  inlet  and  held  him  back.  He  had 
a  gone  feeling  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and 
suffered  from  faintness  and  numbness.  At 


56  TRUST 

his  command,  the  man  took  the  bailer  and  threw 
salt  water  into  his  face. 

The  Athenian  s  anchor  was  up-and-down 
when  they  came  alongside,  and  Churchill  was 
at  the  end  of  his  last  remnant  of  strength. 

"Stop  her !  Stop  her !"  he  shouted  hoarsely. 
"  Important  message  !  Stop  her ! " 

Then  he  dropped  his  chin  on  his  chest  and 
slept.  When  half  a  dozen  men  started  to  carry 
him  up  the  gang-plank,  he  awoke,  reached  for 
the  grip,  and  clung  to  it  like  a  drowning 
man. 

On  deck  he  became  a  centre  of  horror  and 
curiosity.  The  clothing  in  which  he  had  left 
White  Horse  was  represented  by  a  few  rags, 
and  he  was  as  frayed  as  his  clothing.  He  had 
travelled  for  fifty-five  hours  at  the  top  notch  of 
endurance.  He  had  slept  six  hours  in  that 
time,  and  he  was  twenty  pounds  lighter  than 
when  he  started.  Face  and  hands  and  body 
were  scratched  and  bruised,  and  he  could 
scarcely  see.  He  tried  to  stand  up,  but  failed, 
sprawling  out  on  the  deck,  hanging  on  to  the 
gripsack,  and  delivering  his  message. 


TRUST  57 

"Now,  put  me  to  bed,"  he  finished;  "I'll 
eat  when  I  wake  up." 

They  did  him  honor,  carrying  him  down  in 
his  rags  and  dirt  and  depositing  him  and  Bon- 
dell's  grip  in  the  bridal  chamber,  which  was  the 
biggest  and  most  luxurious  state-room  in  the 
ship.  Twice  he  slept  the  clock  around,  and 
he  had  bathed  and  shaved  and  eaten  and  was 
leaning  over  the  rail  smoking  a  cigar  when  the 
two  hundred  pilgrims  from  White  Horse  came 
alongside. 

By  the  time  the  Athenian  arrived  in  Seattle, 
Churchill  had  fully  recuperated,  and  he  went 
ashore  with  Bondell's  grip  in  his  hand.  He 
felt  proud  of  that  grip.  To  him  it  stood  for 
achievement  and  integrity  and  trust.  "I've 
delivered  the  goods,"  was  the  way  he  expressed 
these  various  high  terms  to  himself.  It  was 
early  in  the  evening,  and  he  went  straight  to 
Bondell's  home.  Louis  Bondell  was  glad  to 
see  him,  shaking  hands  with  both  hands  at 
the  same  time  and  dragging  him  into  the 
house. 

"Oh,  thanks,  old  man;    it  was  good  of  you 


58  TRUST 

to  bring  it  out,"  Bondell  said  when  he  received 
the  gripsack. 

He  tossed  it  carelessly  upon  a  couch,  and 
Churchill  noted  with  an  appreciative  eye  the 
rebound  of  its  weight  from  the  springs.  Bon- 
dell  was  volleying  him  with  questions. 

"  How  did  you  make  out  ?  How're  the  boys  ? 
What  became  of  Bill  Smithers  ?  Is  Del  Bishop 
still  with  Pierce  ?  Did  he  sell  my  dogs  ?  How 
did  Sulphur  Bottom  show  up  ?  You're  looking 
fine.  What  steamer  did  you  come  out  on?" 

To  all  of  which  Churchill  gave  answer,  till 
half  an  hour  had  gone  by  and  the  first  lull  in 
the  conversation  had  arrived. 

"Hadn't  you  better  take  a  look  at  it?"  he 
suggested,  nodding  his  head  at  the  gripsack. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  Bondell  answered. 
"Did  Mitchell's  dump  turn  out  as  much  as 
he  expected?" 

"I  think  you'd  better  look  at  it,"  Churchill 
insisted.  "When  I  deliver  a  thing,  I  want  to 
be  satisfied  that  it's  all  right.  There's  always 
the  chance  that  somebody  might  have  got  into 
it  when  I  was  asleep,  or  something." 


TRUST 


59 


"It's  nothing  important,  old  man,"  Bondell 
answered,  with  a  laugh. 

"Nothing  important/'  Churchill  echoed  in  a 
faint,  small  voice.  Then  he  spoke  with  deci 
sion:  "Louis,  what's  in  that  bag?  I  want  to 
know." 

Louis  looked  at  him  curiously,  then  left  the 
room  and  returned  with  a  bunch  of  keys.  He 
inserted  his  hand  and  drew  out  a  heavy  44 
Colt's  revolver.  Next  came  out  a  few  boxes  of 
ammunition  for  the  revolver  and  several  boxes 
of  Winchester  cartridges. 

Churchill  took  the  gripsack  and  looked  into 
it.  Then  he  turned  it  upside  down  and  shook 
it  gently. 

"  The  gun's  all  rusted,"  Bondell  said.  "  Must 
have  been  out  in  the  rain." 

"Yes,"  Churchill  answered.  "Too  bad  it 
got  wet.  I  guess  I  was  a  bit  careless." 

He  got  up  and  went  outside.  Ten  minutes 
later  Louis  Bondell  went  out  and  found  him  on 
the  steps,  sitting  down,  elbows  on  knees  and 
chin  on  hands,  gazing  steadfastly  out  into  the 
darkness. 


TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 


TO  BUILD  A  FIRE 

f  •  -  "~~\ 

DAY  had  broken  cold  and  gray,  exceed 
ingly  cold  and  gray,  when  the  man 
turned  aside  from  the  main  Yukon  trail 
and  climbed  the  high  earth-bank,  where  a  dim 
and  little-travelled  trail  led  eastward  through  the 
fat  spruce  timberland.  It  was  a  steep  bank,  and 
he  paused  for  breath  at  the  top,  excusing  the  act 
to  himself  by  looking  at  his  watch.  It  was 
nine  o'clock.  There  was  no  sun  nor  hint  of  sun, 
though  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  It 
was  a  clear  day,  and  yet  there  seemed  an  in 
tangible  pall  over  the  face  of  things,  a  subtle 
gloom  that  made  the  day  dark,  and  that  was  due 
to  the  absence  of  sun.  This  fact  did  not  worry 
the  man.  He  was  used  to  the  lack  of  sun.  It 
had  been  days  since  he  had  seen  the  sun,  and 
he  knew  that  a  few  more  days  must  pass  before 
that  cheerful  orb,  due  south,  would  just  peep 
above  the  sky-line  and  dip  immediately  from  view. 

63 


64  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

The  man  flung  a  look  back  along  the  way  he 
had  come.  The  Yukon  lay  a  mile  wide  and 
hidden  under  three  feet  of  ice.  On  top  of  this 
ice  were  as  many  feet  of  snow.  It  was  all 
pure  white,  rolling  in  gentle,  undulations 
where  the  ice-jams  of  the  freeze-up  had 
formed.  North  and  south,  as  far  as  his 
eye  could  see,  it  was  unbroken  white,  save  for  a 
dark  hair-line  that  curved  and  twisted  from 
around  the  spruce-covered  island  to  the  south, 
and  that  curved  and  twisted  away  into  the  north, 
where  it  disappeared  behind  another  spruce- 
covered  island.  This  dark  hair-line  was  the 
trail  —  the  main  trail  -I—  that  led  south  five 
hundred  miles  to  the  Chilcoot  Pass,  Dyea,  and 
salt  water;  and  that  led  north  seventy  miles 
to  Dawson,  and  still  on  to  the  north  a  thousand 
miles  to  Nulato,  and  finally  to  St.  Michael  on 
Bering  Sea,  a  thousand  miles  and  half  a  thou 
sand  more. 

But  all  this  —  the  mysterious,  far-reaching 
hair-line  trail,  the  absence  of  sun  from  the  sky, 
the  tremendous  cold,  and  the  strangeness  and 
weirdness  of  it  all  —  made  no  impression  on 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  65 

the  man.j  It  was  not  because  he  was  long  used 
to  it.  i  He  was  a  newcomer  in  the  land,  a 
chechaquo,  and  this  was  his  first  winter.  The 
trouble  with  him  was  that  he  was  without  imag 
ination.  He  was  quick  and  alert  in  the  things 
of  life,  but  only  jn  the  things,  and  not  in  the 
significances.  Fifty  degrees  below  zero  meant 
eighty-odd  degrees  of  frost.  Such  fact  im 
pressed  him  as  being  cold  and  uncomfortable, 
and  that  was  all.  ;  It  did  not  lead  him  to  medi 
tate  upon  his  frailty  as  a  creature  of  temperature, 
and  upon  man's  frailty  in  general,  able  only  to 
live  within  certain  narrow  limits  of  heat  and 
cold;  and  from  there  on  it  did  not  lead  him 
to  the  conjectural  field  of  immortality  and  man's 
place  in  the  universe.  Fifty  degrees  below 
zero  stood  for  a  bite  of  frost  that  hurt  and  that 
must  be  guarded  against  by  the  use  of  mittens, 
ear-flaps,  warm  moccasins,  and  thick  socks. 
Fifty  degrees  below  zero  was  to  him  just  pre 
cisely  fifty  degrees  below  zero.  That  there 
should  be  anything  more  to  it  than  that  was 
a  thought  that  never  entered  his  head. 

As  he  turned  to  go  on,  he  spat  speculatively. 


66  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

There  was  a  sharp,  explosive  crackle  that 
startled  him.  He  spat  again.  And  again,  in 
the  air,  before  it  could  fall  to  the  snow,  the 
spittle  crackled.  He  knew  that  at  fifty  below 
spittle  crackled  on  the  snow,  but  this  spittle 
had  crackled  in  the  air.  Undoubtedly  it  was 
colder  than  fifty  below  —  how  much  colder  he 
did  not  know.  But  the  temperature  did  not 
matter.  He  was  bound  for  the  old  claim  on 
the  left  fork  of  Henderson  Creek,  where  the  boys 
were  already.^  They  had  come  over  across  the 
divide  from  the  Indian  Creek  country,  while  he 
had  come  the  roundabout  way  to  take  a  look 
at  the  possibilities  of  getting  out  logs  in  the 
spring  from  the  islands  in  the  Yukon.1  He 
would  be  in  to  camp  by  six  o'clock;  a  bit  after 
dark,  it  was  true,  but  the  boys  would  be  there, 
a  fire  would  be  going,  and  a  hot  supper  would 
be  ready.  As  for  lunch,  he  pressed  his  hand 
against  the  protruding  bundle  under  his  jacket. 
It  was  also  under  his  shirt,  wrapped  up  in  a 
handkerchief  and  lying  against  the  naked  skin. 
It  was  the  only  way  to  keep  the  biscuits  from 
freezing.  He  smiled  agreeably  to  himself  as 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  67 

he  thought  of  those  biscuits,  each  cut  open  and 
sopped  in  bacon  grease,  and  each  enclosing  a 
generous  slice  of  fried  bacon. 

He  plunged  in  among  the  big  spruce  trees. 
The  trail  was  faint.  A  foot  of  snow  had  fallen 
since  the  last  sled  had  passed  over,  and  he  was 
glad  he  was  without  a  sled,  travelling  light.  In 
fact,  he  carried  nothing  but  the  lunch  wrapped 
in  the  handkerchief.  He  was  surprised,  how 
ever,  at  the  cold.  It  certainly  was  cold,  he 
concluded,  as  he  rubbed  his  numb  nose  and 
cheek-bones  with  his  mittened  hand.  He  was 
a  warm-whiskered  man,  but  the  hair  on  his 
face  did  not  protect  the  high  cheek-bones  and 
the  eager  nose  that  thrust  itself  aggressively  into 
the  frosty  air. 

At  the  man's  heels  trotted  a  dog,  a  big  native 
husky,  the  proper  wolf-dog,  gray-coated  and 
without  any  visible  or  temperamental  difference 
from  its  brother,  the  wild  wolf.  The  animal 
was  depressed  by  the  tremendous  cold.  It  knew 
that  it  was  no  time  for  travelling.  Its  instinct 
told  it  a  truer  tale  than  was  told  to  the  man 
by  the  man's  judgment.  In  reality,  it  was  not 


68  TO    BUILD   A  FIRE 

merely  colder  than  fifty  below  zero ;  it  was  colder 
than  sixty  below,  than  seventy  below.  It  was 
seventy-five  below  zeroj  Since  the  freezing- 
point  is  thirty-two  above  zero,  it  meant  that 
one  hundred  and  seven  degrees  of  frost  obtained. 
The  dog  did  not  know  anything  about  ther 
mometers.  Possibly  in  its  brain  there  was  no 
sharp  consciousness  of  a  condition  of  very  cold 
such  as  was  in  the  man's  brain.  But  the  brute 
had  its  instinct.  It  experienced  a  vague  but  men 
acing  apprehension  that  subdued  it  and  made  it 
slink  along  at  the  man's  heels,  and  that  made 
it  question  eagerly  every  unwonted  movement  of 
the  man  as  if  expecting  him  to  go  into  camp 
or  to  seek  shelter  somewhere  and  build  a  fire. 
The  dog  had  learned  fire,  and  it  wanted  fire, 
or  else  to  burrow  under  the  snow  and  cuddle 
its  warmth  away  from  the  air. 

The  frozen  moisture  of  its  breathing  had 
settled  on  its  fur  in  a  fine  powder  of  frost,  and 
especially  were  its  jowls,  muzzle,  and  eyelashes 
whitened  by  its  crystalled  breath.  The  man's 
red  beard  and  mustache  were  likewise  frosted, 
but  more  solidly,  the  deposit  taking  the  form 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  69 

of  ice  and  increasing  with  every  warm,  moist 
breath  he  exhaled.  Also,  the  man  was  chewing 
tobacco,  and  the  muzzle  of  ice  held  his  lips  so 
rigidly  that  he  was  unable  to  clear  his  chin  when 
he  expelled  the  juice.  The  result  was  that  a 
crystal  beard  of  the  color  and  solidity  of  amber 
was  increasing  its  length  on  his  chin.  If  he 
fell  down  it  would  shatter  itself,  like  glass,  into 
brittle  fragments.  But  he  did  not  mind  the 
appendage.  It  was  the  penalty  all  tobacco- 
chewers  paid  in  that  country,  and  he  had  been 
out  before  in  two  cold  snaps.  They  had  not 
been  so  cold  as  this,  he  knew,  but  by  the  spirit 
thermometer  at  Sixty  Mile  he  knew  they  had 
been  registered  at  fifty  below  and  at  fifty- 
five. 

He  held  on  through  the  level  stretch  of  woods 
for  several  miles,  crossed  a  wide  flat  of  nigger- 
heads,  and  dropped  down  a  bank  to  the  frozen 
bed  of  a  small  stream.  This  was  Henderson 
Creek,  and  he  knew  he  was  ten  miles  from  the 
forks.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  ten 
o'clock.  He  was  making  four  miles  an  hour, 
and  he  calculated  that  he  would  arrive  at  the 


7o  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

forks  at  half-past  twelve.  He  decided  to  cele 
brate  that  event  by  eating  his  lunch  there. 

The  dog  dropped  in  again  at  his  heels,  with 
a  tail  drooping  discouragement,  as  the  man 
swung  along  the  creek-bed.  The  furrow  of  the 
old  sled-trail  was  plainly  visible,  but  a  dozen 
inches  of  snow  covered  the  marks  of  the  last 
runners.  In  a  month  no  man  had  come  up  or 
down  that  silent  creek.  The  man  held  steadily 
on.  He  was  not  much  given  to  thinking,  and 
just  then  particularly  he  had  nothing  to  think 
about  save  that  he  would  eat  lunch  at  the  forks 
and  that  at  six  o'clock  he  would  be  in  camp 
with  the  boys.  There  was  nobody  to  talk  to; 
and,  had  there  been,  speech  would  have  been 
impossible  because  of  the  ice-muzzle  on  his 
mouth.  So  he  continued  monotonously  to 
chew  tobacco  and  to  increase  the  length  of 
his  amber  beard. 

Once  in  a  while  the  thought  reiterated  itself 
that  it  was  very  cold  and  that  he  had  never 
experienced  such  cold.  As  he  walked  along 
he  rubbed  his  cheek-bones  and  nose  with  the 
back  of  his  mittened  hand.  He  did  this  auto- 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  71 

matically,  now  and  again  changing  hands. 
But  rub  as  he  would,  the  instant  he  stopped 
his  cheek-bones  went  numb,  and  the  follow 
ing  instant  the  end  of  his  nose  went  numb. 
He  was  sure  to  frost  his  cheeks;  he  knew  that, 
and  experienced  a  pang  of  regret  that  he  had 
not  devised  a  nose-strap  of  the  sort  Bud  wore 
in  cold  snaps.  Such  a  strap  passed  across  the 
cheeks,  as  well,  and  saved  them.  But  it  didn't 
matter  much,  after  all.  What  were  frosted 
cheeks?  A  bit  painful,  that  was  all;  they 
were  never  serious. 

Empty  as  the  man's  mind  was  of  thoughts, 
he  was  keenly  observant,  and  he  noticed  the 
changes  in  the  creek,  the  curves  and  bends  and 
timber-jams,  and  always  he  sharply  noted 
where  he  placed  his  feet.  Once,  coming  around 
.a  bend,  he  shied  abruptly,  like  a  startled  horse, 
curved  away  from  the  place  where  he  had  been 
walking,  and  retreated  several  paces  back 
along  the  trail.  The  creek  he  knew  was  frozen 
clear  to  the  bottom,  —  no  creek  could  contain 
water  in  that  arctic  winter,  —  but  he  knew  also 
that  there  were  springs  that  bubbled  out  from 


72  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

the  hillsides  and  ran  along  under  the  snow 
and  on  top  the  ice  of  the  creek.  He  knew  that 
the  coldest  snaps  never  froze  these  springs, 
and  he  knew  likewise  their  danger.  They 
were  traps.  They  hid  pools  of  water  under 
the  snow  that  might  be  three  inches  deep,  or 
three  feet.  Sometimes  a  skin  of  ice  half  an  inch 
thick  covered  them,  and  in  turn  was  covered 
by  the  snow.  Sometimes  there  were  alternate 
layers  of  water  and  ice-skin,  so  that  when  one 
broke  through  he  kept  on  breaking  through 
for  a  while,  sometimes  wetting  himself  to  the 
waist. 

That  was  why  he  had  shied   in  such  panic. 
He  had  felt  the  give  under  his  feet  and  heard 

the   crackle   of  a   snow-hidden   ice-skin.     And 

/ . 

to  get  his  feet  wet  in  such  a  temperature  meant 
trouble  and  danger.  At  the  very  least  it  meant 
delay,  for  he  would  be  forced  to  stop  and  build 
a  fire,  and  under  its  protection  to  bare  his  feet 
while  he  dried  his  socks  and  moccasins.  He 
stood  and  studied  the  creek-bed  and  its  banks, 
and  decided  that  the  flow  of  water  came  from 
the  right.  He  reflected  awhile,  rubbing  his 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  73 

nose  and  cheeks,  then  skirted  to  the  left,  step 
ping  gingerly  and  testing  the  footing  for  each 
step.  Once  clear  of  the  danger,  he  took  a  fresh 
chew  of  tobacco  and  swung  along  at  his  four- 
mile  gait. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  two  hours  he  came 
upon  several  similar  traps.  Usually  the  snow 
above  the  hidden  pools  had  a  sunken,  candied 
appearance  that  advertised  the  danger.  Once 
again,  however,  he  had  a  close  call;  and  once, 
suspecting  danger,  he  compelled  the  dog  to  go 
on  in  front.  The  dog  did  not  want  to  go.  It 
hung  back  until  the  man  shoved  it  fonvard, 
and  then  it  went  quickly  across  the  white,  un 
broken  surface.  Suddenly  it  broke  through, 
floundered  to  one  side,  and  got  away  to  firmer 
footing.  It  had  wet  its  forefeet  and  legs,  and 
almost  immediately  the  water  that  clung  to  it 
turned  to  ice.  It  made  quick  efforts  to  lick 
the  ice  off  its  legs,  then  dropped  down  in  the 
snow  and  began  to  bite  out  the  ice  that  had 
formed  between  the  toes.  This  was  a  matter 
of  instinct.  To  permit  the  ice  to  remain  would 
mean  sore  feet.  It  did  not  know  this.  It  merely 


74  TO   BUILD   A   FIRE 

obeyed  the  mysterious  prompting  that  arose 
from  the  deep  crypts  of  its  being.  But  the  man 
knew,  having  achieved  a  judgment  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  he  removed  the  mitten  from  his  right 
hand  and  helped  tear  out  the  ice-particles.  He 
did  not  expose  his  fingers  more  than  a  minute, 
and  was  astonished  at  the  swift  numbness  that 
smote  them.  It  certainly  was  cold.  He  pulled 
on  the  mitten  hastily,  and  beat  the  hand  savagely 
across  his  chest. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  day  was  at  its  brightest. 
Yet  the  sun  was  too  far  south  on  its  winter 
journey  to  clear  the  horizon.  The  bulge  of  the 
earth  intervened  between  it  and  Henderson 
Creek,  where  the  man  walked  under  a  clear 
sky  at  noon  and  <cast  no  shadow.  At  half-past 
twelve,  to  the  minute,  he  arrived  at  the  forks  of 
the  creek.  He  was  pleased  at  the  speed  he 
had  made.  If  he  kept  it  up,  he  would  certainly 
be  with  the  boys  by  six.  He  unbuttoned  his 
jacket  and  shirt  and  drew  forth  his  lunch.  The 
action  consumed  no  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
minute,  yet  in  that  brief  moment  the  numbness 
laid  hold  of  the  exposed  fingers.  He  did  not 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  75 

put  the  mitten  on,  but,  instead,  struck  the 
fingers  a  dozen  sharp  smashes  against  his  leg. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  a  snow-covered  log  to  eat. 
The  sting  that  followed  upon  the  striking  of  his 
fingers  against  his  leg  ceased  so  quickly  that 
he  was  startled.  He  had  had  no  chance  to  take 
a  bite  of  biscuit.  He  struck  the  fingers  re 
peatedly  and  returned  them  to  the  mitten,  bar 
ing  the  other  hand  for  the  purpose  of  eating. 
He  tried  to  take  a  mouthful,  but  the  ice-muzzle 
prevented.  He  had  forgotten  to  build  a  fire  and 
thaw  out.  He  chuckled  at  his  foolishness, 
and  as  he  chuckled  he  noted  the  numbness 
creeping  into  the  exposed  fingers.  Also,  he 
noted  that  the  stinging  which  had  first  come  to 
his  toes  when  he  sat  down  was  already  passing 
away.  He  wondered  whether  the  toes  were 
warm  or  numb.  He  moved  them  inside  the 
moccasins  and  decided  that  they  were  numb. 
He  pulled  the  mitten  on  hurriedly  and  stood 
up.  He  was  a  bit  frightened.  He  stamped 
up  and  down  until  the  stinging  returned  into 
the  feet.  It  certainly  was  cold,  was  his  thought. 
That  man  from  Sulphur  Creek  had  spoken  the 


76  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

truth  when  telling  how  cold  it  sometimes  got  in 
the  country.  And  he  had  laughed  at  him  at  the 
time !  That  showed  one  must  not  be  too  sure 
of  things.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it,  it 
was  cold.  He  strode  up  and  down,  stamping 
his  feet  and  threshing  his  arms,  until  reassured 
by  the  returning  warmth.  Then  he  got  out 
matches  and  proceeded  to  make  a  fire.  From 
the  undergrowth,  where  high  water  of  the  pre 
vious  spring  had  lodged  a  supply  of  seasoned 
twigs,  he  got  his  fire-wood.  Working  care 
fully  from  a  small  beginning,  he  soon  had  a 
roaring  fire,  over  which  he  thawed  the  ice  from 
his  face  and  in  the  protection  of  which  he  ate 
his  biscuits.  For  the  moment  the  cold  of  space 
was  outwitted.  The  dog  took  satisfaction  in 
the  fire,  stretching  out  close  enough  for  warmth 
and  far  enough  away  to  escape  being  singed. 

When  the  man  had  finished,  he  filled  his  pipe 
and  took  his  comfortable  time  over  a  smoke. 
Then  he  pulled  on  his  mittens,  settled  the  ear- 
flaps  of  his  cap  firmly  about  his  ears,  and  took 
the  creek  trail  up  the  left  fork.  The  dog  was 
disappointed  and  yearned  back  toward  the 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  77 

fire.  This  man  did  not  know  cold.  Possibly 
all  the  generations  of  his  ancestry  had  been 
ignorant  of  cold,  of  real  cold,  of  cold  one  hun 
dred  and  seven  degrees  below  freezing-point. 
But  the  dog  knew;  all  its  ancestry  knew,  and 
it  had  inherited  the  knowledge.  And  it  knew 
that  it  was  not  good  to  walk  abroad  in  such 
fearful  cold.  It  was  the  time  to  lie  snug  in  a 
hole  in  the  snow  and  wait  for  a  curtain  of  cloud  to 
be  drawn  across  the  face  of  outer  space  whence 
this  cold  came.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was 
no  keen  intimacy  between  the  dog  and  the  man. 
The  one  was  the  toil-slave  of  the  other,  and  the 
only  caresses  it  had  ever  received  were  the 
caresses  of  the  whip-lash  and  of  harsh  and 
menacing  throat-sounds  that  threatened  the 
whip-lash.  So  the  dog  made  no  effort  to  com 
municate  its  apprehension  to  the  man.  It  was 
not  concerned  in  the  welfare  of  the  man;  it  was 
for  its  own  sake  that  it  yearned  back  toward 
the  fire.  But  the  man  whistled,  and  spoke  to 
it  with  the  sound  of  whip-lashes,  and  the  dog 
swung  in  at  the  man's  heels  and  followed  after. 
The  man  took  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  pro- 


78  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

ceeded  to  start  a  new  amber  beard.  Also,  his 
moist  breath  quickly  .powdered  with  white  his 
mustache,  eyebrows,  and  lashes.  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  so  many  springs  on  the  left  fork 
of  the  Henderson,  and  for  half  an  hour  the  man 
saw  no  signs  of  any.  And  then  it  happened. 
At  a  place  where  there  were  no  signs,  where 
the  soft,  unbroken  snow  seemed  to  advertise 
solidity  beneath,  the  man  broke  through.  It 
was  not  deep.  He  wet  himself  halfway  to 
the  knees  before  he  floundered  out  to  the  firm 
crust. 

He  was  angry,  and  cursed  his  luck  aloud. 
He  had  hoped  to  get  into  camp  with  the  boys  at 
six  o'clock,  and  this  would  delay  him  an  hour, 
for  he  would  have  to  build  a  fire  and  dry  out 
his  foot-gear.  This  was  imperative  at  that  low 
temperature  —  he  knew  that  much ;  and  he 
turned  aside  to  the  bank,  which  he  climbed. 
On  top,  tangled  in  the  underbrush  about  the 
trunks  of  several  small  spruce  trees,  was  a  high- 
water  deposit  of  dry  fire-wood  —  sticks  and 
twigs,  principally,  but  also  larger  portions  of 
seasoned  branches  and  fine,  dry,  last-year's 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  79 

grasses.  He  threw  down  several  large  pieces  on 
top  of  the  snow.  This  served  for  a  foundation 
and  prevented  the  young  flame  from  drowning 
itself  in  the  snow  it  otherwise  would  melt. 
The  flame  he  got  by  touching  a  match  to  a 
small  shred  of  birch-bark  that  he  took  from 
his  pocket.  This  burned  even  more  readily 
than  paper.  Placing  it  on  the  foundation,  he 
fed  the  young  flame  with  wisps  of  dry  grass  and 
with  the  tiniest  dry  twigs. 

He  worked  slowly  and  carefully,  keenly  aware 
of  his  danger.  Gradually,  as  the  flame  grew 
stronger,  he  increased  the  size  of  the  twigs  with 
which  he  fed  it.  He  squatted  in  the  snow, 
pulling  the  twigs  out  from  their  entanglement 
in  the  brush  and  feeding  directly  to  the  flame. 
He  knew  there  must  be  no  failure.  When  it  is 
seventy-five  below  zero,  a  man  must  not  fail  in 
his  first  attempt  to  build  a  fire  —  that  is,  if  his 
feet  are  wet.  If  his  feet  are  dry,  and  he  fails, 
he  can  run  along  the  trail  for  half  a  mile  and 
restore  his  circulation.  But  the  circulation  of 
wet  and  freezing  feet  cannot  be  restored  by 
running  when  it  is  seventy-five  below.  No 


80  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

matter  how  fast  he  runs,  the  wet  feet  will  freeze 
the  harder. 

All  this  the  man  knew.  The  old-timer  on 
Sulphur  Creek  had  told  him  about  it  the  pre 
vious  fall,  and  now  he  was  appreciating  the 
advice.  Already  all  sensation  had  gone  out 
of  his  feet.  To  build  the  fire  he  had  been  forced 
to  remove  his  mittens,  and  the  fingers  had 
quickly  gone  numb.  His  pace  of  four  miles 
an  hour  had  kept  his  heart  pumping  blood  to 
the  surface  of  his  body  and  to  all  the  extremi 
ties.  But  the  instant  he  stopped,  the  action 
of  the  pump  eased  down.  The  cold  of  space 
smote  the  unprotected  tip  of  the  planet,  and 
he,  being  on  that  unprotected  tip,  received  the 
full  force  of  the  blow.  The  blood  of  his  body 
recoiled  before  it.  The  blood  was  alive,  like 
the  dog,  and  like  the  dog  it  wanted  to  hide  away 
and  cover  itself  up  from  the  fearful  cold.  So 
long  as  he  walked  four  miles  an  hour,  he  pumped 
that  blood,  willy-nilly,  to  the  surface;  but  now 
it  ebbed  away  and  sank  down  into  the  recesses 
of  his  body.  The  extremities  were  the  first  to 
feel  its  absence.  His  wet  feet  froze  the  faster, 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  81 

and  his  exposed  fingers  numbed  the  faster, 
though  they  had  not  yet  begun  to  freeze.  Nose 
and  cheeks  were  already  freezing,  while  the  skin 
of  all  his  body  chilled  as  it  lost  its  blood. 

But  he  was  safe.  Toes  and  nose  and  cheeks 
would  be  only  touched  by  the  frost,  for  the  fire 
was  beginning  to  burn  with  strength.  He  was 
feeding  it  with  twigs  the  size  of  his  finger.  In 
another  minute  he  would  be  able  to  feed  it  with 
branches  the  size  of  his  wrist,  and  then  he  could 
remove  his  wet  foot-gear,  and,  while  it  dried, 
he  could  keep  his  naked  feet  warm  by  the  fire, 
rubbing  them  at  first,  of  course,  with  snow. 
The  fire  was  a  success.  He  was  safe.  He  re 
membered  the  advice  of  the  old-timer  on  Sul 
phur  Creek,  and  smiled.  The  old-timer  had 
been  very  serious  in  laying  down  the  law  that 
no  man  must  travel  alone  in  the  Klondike 
after  fifty  below.  Well,  here  he  was;  he  had 
had  the  accident;  he  was  alone;  and  he  had 
saved  himself.  Those  old-timers  were  rather 
womanish,  some  of  them,  he  thought.  All  a 
man  had  to  do  was  to  keep  his  head,  and  he 
was  all  right.  Any  man  who  was  a  man  could 


82  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

travel  alone.  But  it  was  surprising,  the  rapidity 
with  which  his  cheeks  and  nose  were  freezing. 
And  he  had  not  thought  his  fingers  could  go 
lifeless  in  so  short  a  time.  Lifeless  they  were, 
for  he  could  scarcely  make  them  move  together 
to  grip  a  twig,  and  they  seemed  remote  from 
his  body  and  from  him.  When  he  touched  a 
twig,  he  had  to  look  and  see  whether  or  not  he 
had  hold  of  it.  The  wires  were  pretty  well 
down  between  him  and  his  finger-ends. 

All  of  which  counted  for  little.  There  was 
the  fire,  snapping  and  crackling  and  promising 
life  with  every  dancing  flame.  He  started  to 
untie  his  moccasins.  They  were  coated  with 
ice;  the  thick  German  socks  were  like  sheaths 
of  iron  halfway  to  the  knees;  and  the  moccasin 
strings  were  like  rods  of  steel  all  twisted  and 
knotted  as  by  some  conflagration.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  tugged  with  his  numb  fingers,  then, 
realizing  the  folly  of  it,  he  drew  his  sheath- 
knife. 

But  before  he  could  cut  the  strings,  it  hap 
pened.  It  was  his  own  fault  or,  rather,  his 
mistake.  He  should  not  have  built  the  fire 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  83 

under  the  spruce  tree.  He  should  have  built  it 
in  the  open.  But  it  had  been  easier  to  pull  the 
twigs  from  the  brush  and  drop  them  directly  on 
the  fire.  Now  the  tree  under  which  he  had 
done  this  carried  a  weight  of  snow  on  its  boughs. 
No  wind  had  blown  for  weeks,  and  each  bough 
was  fully  freighted.  Each  time  he  had  pulled 
a  twig  he  had  communicated  a  slight  agitation 
to  the  tree  —  an  imperceptible  agitation,  so  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  but  an  agitation  sufficient 
to  bring  about  the  disaster.  High  up  in  the  tree 
one  bough  capsized  its  load  of  snow.  This 
fell  on  the  boughs  beneath,  capsizing  them. 
This  process  continued,  spreading  out  and  in 
volving  the  whole  tree.  It  grew  like  an  ava 
lanche,  and  it  descended  without  warning  upon 
the  man  and  the  fire,  and  the  fire  was  blotted  out ! 
Where  it  had  burned  was  a  mantle  of  fresh  and 
disordered  snow. 

The  man  was  shocked.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  just  heard  his  own  sentence  of  death. 
For  a  moment  he  sat  and  stared  at  the  spot  where 
the  fire  had  been.  Then  he  grew  very  calm. 
Perhaps  the  old-timer  on  Sulphur  Creek  was 


84  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

right.  If  he  had  only  had  a  trail-mate  he  would 
have  been  in  no  danger  now.  The  trail-mate 
could  have  built  the  fire.  Well,  it  was  up  to  him 
to  build  the  fire  over  again,  and  this  second  time 
there  must  be  no  failure.  Even  if  he  succeeded, 
he  would  most  likely  lose  some  toes.  His  feet 
must  be  badly  frozen  by  now,  and  there  would 
be  some  time  before  the  second  fire  was  ready. 
Such  were  his  thoughts,  but  he  did  not  sit 
and  think  them.  He  was  busy  all  the  time 
they  were  passing  through  his  mind.  He  made 
a  new  foundation  for  a  fire,  this  time  in  the  open, 
where  no  treacherous  tree  could  blot  it  out. 
Next,  he  gathered  dry  grasses  and  tiny  twigs 
from  the  high-water  flotsam.  He  could  not 
bring  his  fingers  together  to  pull  them  out,  but 
he  was  able  to  gather  them  by  the  handful. 
In  this  way  he  got  many  rotten  twigs  and  bits 
of  green  moss  that  were  undesirable,  but  it  was 
the  best  he  could  do.  He  worked  methodically, 
even  collecting  an  armful  of  the  larger  branches 
to  be  used  later  when  the  fire  gathered  strength. 
And  all  the  while  the  dog  sat  and  watched  him, 
a  certain  yearning  wistfulness  in  its  eyes,  for  it 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  85 

looked  upon  him  as  the  fire- provider,  and  the 
fire  was  slow  in  coming. 

When  all  was  ready,  the  man  reached  in  his 
pocket  for  a  second  piece  of  birch-bark.  He 
knew  the  bark  was  there,  and,  though  he  could 
not  feel  it  with  his  fingers,  he  could  hear  its 
crisp  rustling  as  he  fumbled  for  it.  Try  as  he 
would,  he  could  not  clutch  hold  of  it.  ,And  all 
the  time,  in  his  consciousness,  was  the  knowl 
edge  that  each  instant  his  feet  were  freezing. 
This  thought  tended  to  put  him  in  a  panic,  but 
he  fought  against  it  and  kept  calm.  He  pulled 
on  his  mittens  with  his  teeth,  and  threshed  his 
arms  back  and  forth,  beating  his  hands  with  all 
his  might  against  his  sides.  He  did  this  sitting 
down,  and  he  stood  up  to  do  it;  and  all  the  while 
the  dog  sat  in  the  snow,  its  wolf-brush  of  a  tail 
curled  around  warmly  over  its  forefeet,  its  sharp 
wolf-ears  pricked  forward  intently  as  it  watched 
the  man.  And  the  man,  as  he  beat  and  threshed 
with  his  arms  and  hands,  felt  a  great  surge  of 
envy  as  he  regarded  the  creature  that  was  warm 
and  secure  in  its  natural  covering. 

After  a  time  he  was  aware  of  the  first  far- 


86  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

away  signals  of  sensation  in  his  beaten  fingers. 
The  faint  tingling  grew  stronger  till  it  evolved 
into  a  stinging  ache  that  was  excruciating,  but 
which  the  man  hailed  with  satisfaction.  He 
stripped  the  mitten  from  his  right  hand  and 
fetched  forth  the  birch-bark.  The  exposed 
fingers  were  quickly  going  numb  again.  Next 
he  brought  out  his  bunch  of  sulphur  matches. 
But  the  tremendous  cold  had  already  driven 
the  life  out  of  his  fingers.  In  his  effort  to  sep 
arate  one  match  from  the  others,  the  whole 
bunch  fell  in  the  snow.  He  tried  to  pick  it 
out  of  the  snow,  but  failed.  The  dead  fingers 
could  neither  touch  nor  clutch.  He  was  very 
careful.  He  drove  the  thought  of  his  freezing 
feet,  and  nose,  and  cheeks,  out  of  his  mind, 
devoting  his  whole  soul  to  the  matches.  He 
watched,  using  the  sense  of  vision  in  place  of  that 
of  touch,  and  when  he  saw  his  fingers  on  each 
side  the  bunch,  he  closed  them  —  that  is,  he 

willed  to  close  them,  for  the  wires  were  down, 

, 

and  the  fingers  did  not  obey.  He  pulled  the 
mitten  on  the  right  hand,  and  beat  it  fiercely 
against  his  knee.  Then,  with  both  mittened 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  87 

hands,  he  scooped  the  bunch  of  matches,  along 
with  much  snow,  into  his  lap.  Yet  he  was  no 
better  off. 

After  some  manipulation  he  managed  to  get 
the  bunch  between  the  heels  of  his  mittened 
hands.  In  this  fashion  he  carried  it  to  his 
mouth.  The  ice  crackled  and  snapped  when 
by  a  violent  effort  he  opened  his  mouth.  He 
drew  the  lower  jaw  in,  curled  the  upper  lip  out 
of  the  way,  and  scraped  the  bunch  with  his  upper 
teeth  in  order  to  separate  a  match.  He  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  one,  which  he  dropped  on  his 
lap.  He  was  no  better  off.  He  could  not  pick 
it  up.  Then  he  devised  a  way.  He  picked  it 
up  in  his  teeth  and  scratched  it  on  his  leg. 
Twenty  times  he  scratched  before  he  succeeded 
in  lighting  it.  As  it  flamed  he  held  it  with 
his  teeth  to  the  birch-bark.  But  the  burning 
brimstone  went  up  his  nostrils  and  into  his 
lungs,  causing  him  to  cough  spasmodically. 
The  match  fell  into  the  snow  and  went  out. 

The  old-timer  on  Sulphur  Creek  was  right, 
he  thought  in  the  moment  of  controlled  despair 
that  ensued:  after  fifty  below,  a  man  should 


88  TO    BUILD    A   FIRE 

travel  with  a  partner.  He  beat  his  hands,  but 
failed  in  exciting  any  sensation.  Suddenly 
he  bared  both  hands,  removing  the  mittens 
with  his  teeth.  He  caught  the  whole  bunch 
between  the  heels  of  his  hands.  His  arm- 
muscles  not  being  frozen  enabled  him  to  press 
the  hand-heels  tightly  against  the  matches. 
Then  he  scratched  the  bunch  along  his  leg.  It 
flared  into  flame,  seventy  sulphur  matches  at 
once !  There  was  no  wind  to  blow  them  out. 
He  kept  his  head  to  one  side  to  escape  the  stran 
gling  fumes,  and  held  the  blazing  bunch  to  the 
birch-bark.  As  he  so  held  it,  he  became  aware 
of  sensation  in  his  hand.  His  flesh  was  burn 
ing.  He  could  smell  it.  Deep  down  below  the 
surface  he  could  feel  it.  The  sensation  devel 
oped  into  pain  that  grew  acute.  And  still  he 
endured  it,  holding  the  flame  of  the  matches 
clumsily  to  the  bark  that  would  not  light  readily 
because  his  own  burning  hands  were  in  the  way, 
absorbing  most  of  the  flame. 

At  last,  when  he  could  endure  no  more,  he 
jerked  his  hands  apart.  The  blazing  matches 
fell  sizzling  into  the  snow,  but  the  birch-bark 


I 


'1 


r'       <-    ^  \ 

TO    BUILD    A   FIRE  89 

was  alight.  He  began  laying  dry  grasses  and 
the  tiniest  twigs  on  the  flame.  He  could  not 
pick  and  choose,  for  he  had  to  lift  the  fuel  be 
tween  the  heels  of  his  hands.  Small  pieces  of 
rotten  wood  and  green  moss  clung  to  the  twigs, 
and  he  bit^them  off  as  well  as  he  could  with  his 
teeth.\|  He  cherished  the  flame  carefully  and 
awkwardly.  It  meant  life,  and  it  must  not 
perish. v  The  withdrawal  of  blood  from  the  sur 
face  of  his  body  now  made  him  begin  to  shiver, 
and  he  grew  more  awkward.  A  large  piece  of 
green  moss  fell  squarely  on  the  little  fire.  He 
tried  to  poke  it  out  with  his  fingers,  but  his 
shivering  frame  made  him  poke  too  far,  and 
he  disrupted  the  nucleus  of  the  little  fire,  the 
burning  grasses  and  tiny  twigs  separating  and 
scattering.  He  tried  to  poke  them  together 
again,  but  in  spite  of  the  tenseness  of  the  effort, 
his  shivering  got  away  with_him,  and  the  twigs 
were  hopelessly  scattered.  Each  twig  gushed 
a  puff  of  smoke  and  went  out.  The  fire-pro 
vider  had  failed.  KAs  he  looked  apathetically 
about  him,  his  eyes  chanced  on  the  dog,  sitting 
across  the  ruins  of  the  fire  from  him,  in  the 


90  TO    BUILD    A   FIRE 

snow,  making  restless,  hunching  movements, 
slightly  lifting  one  forefoot  and  then  the  other, 
shifting  its  weight  back  and  forth  on  them  with 
wistful  eagerness. 

The  sight  of  the  dog  put  a  wild  idea  into  his 

•N/ 

head.  He  remembered  the  tale  of  the  man, 
caught  in  a  blizzard,  who  killed  a  steer  and 
crawled  inside  the  carcass,  and  so  was  saved. 
He  would  kill  the  dog  and  bury  his  hands  in  the 
warm  body  until  the  numbness  went  out  of  them. 
Then  he  could  build  another  fire.  '  He  spoke 
to  the  dog,  calling  it  to  him;  but  in  his  voice 
was  a  strange  note  of  fear  that  frightened  the 
animal,  who  had  never  known  the  man  to  speak 
in  such  way  before.  Something  was  the  matter,  X, 
and  its  suspicious  nature  sensed  danger  —  it 
knew  not  what  danger,  but  somewhere,  some 
how,  in  its  brain  arose  an  apprehension  of  the 
man.  It  flattened  its  ears  down  at  the  sound  of 
the  man's  voice,  and  its  restless,  hunching  move 
ments  and  the  liftings  and  shiftings  of  its  fore 
feet  became  more  pronounced ;  but  it  would 
not  come  to  the  man.  He  got  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  crawled  toward  the  dog.  This 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  91 

unusual  posture  again    excited    suspicion,  and 
the  animal  sidled  mincingly  away. 

The  man  sat  up  in  the  snow  for  a  moment 
and  struggled  for  calmness.  Then  he  pulled 
on  his  mittens,  by  means  of  his  teeth,  and  got 
upon  his  feet.  He  glanced  down  at  first  in 
order  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  really  stand 
ing  up,  for  the  absence  of  sensation  in  his  feet 
left  him  unrelated  to  the  earth.  His  erect 
position  in  itself  started  to  drive  the  webs  of 
suspicion  from  the  dog's  mind;  and  when  he 
spoke  peremptorily,  with  the  sound  of  whip 
lashes  in  his  voice,  the  dog  rendered  its  cus 
tomary  allegiance  and  came  to  him.  As  it  came 
within  reaching  distance,  the  man  lost  his  con 
trol.  His  arms  flashed  out  to  the  dog,  and  he 
experienced  genuine  surprise  when  he  discovered 
that  his  hands  could  not  clutch,  that  there  was 
neither  bend  nor  feeling  in  the  fingers.  He 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  they  were 
frozen  and  that  they  were  freezing  more  and 
more.  All  this  happened  quickly,  and  before 
the  animal  could  get  away,  he  encircled  its  body 
with  his  arms.  He  sat  down  in  the  snow,  and 


92  TO   BUILD   A   FIRE 

in  this  fashion  held  the  dog,  while  it  snarled 
and  whined  and  struggled. 

OO 

But  it  was  all  he  could  do,  hold  its  body 
encircled  in  his  arms  and  sit  there.  He  real 
ized  that  he  could  not  kill  the  dog.  There  was 
no  way  to  do  it.  \With  his  helpess  hands  he 
could  neither  draw  nor  hold  his  sheath-knife 
nor  throttle  the  animal.  He  released  it,  and  it 
plunged  wildly  away,  with  tail  between  its  legs, 
and  still  snarling.  It  halted  forty  feet  away 
and  surveyed  him  curiously,  with  ears  sharply 
pricked  forward.  The  man  looked  down  at 
his  hands  in  order  to  locate  them,  and  found 
them  hanging  on  the  ends  of  his  arms.  It 
struck  him  as  curious  that  one  should  have  to 
use  his  eyes  in  order  to  find  out  where  his  hands 
were.  He  began  threshing  his  arms  back  and 
forth,  beating  the  mittened  hands  against  his 
sides.  He  did  this  for  five  minutes,  violently, 
and  his  heart  pumped  enough  blood  up  to  the 
surface  to  put  a  stop  to  his  shivering.  But 
no  sensation  was  aroused  in  the  hands.  He 
had  an  impression  that  they  hung  like  weights 
on  the  ends  of  his  arms,  but  when  he.  tried 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  93 

to   run   the    impression    down,    he    could    not 
find  it. 

A  certain  fear  of  death,  dull  and  oppressive, 
came  to  him.  This  fear  quickly  became  poig 
nant  as  he  realized  that  it  was  no  longer  a  mere 
matter  of  freezing  his  fingers  and  toes,  or  of 
losing  his  hands  and  feet,  but  that  it  was  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  with  the  chances  against 
him.  This  threw  him  into  a  panic,  and  he 
turned  and  ran  up  the  creek-bed  along  the 
old,  dim  trail.  The  dog  joined  in  behind  and 
kept  up  with  him.  He  ran  blindly,  without 
intention,  in  fear  such  as  he  had  never  known 
in  his  life.  Slowly,  as  he  ploughed  and  floun 
dered  through  the  snow,  he  began  to  see  things 
again,  —  the  banks  of  the  creek,  the  old  tim 
ber-jams,  the  leafless  aspens,  and  the  sky. 
The  running  made  him  feel  better.  He  did 
not  shiver.  Maybe,  if  he  ran  on,  his  feet  would 
thaw  out;  and,  anyway,  if  he  ran  far  enough, 
he  would  reach  camp  and  the  boys.  Without 
doubt  he  would  lose  some  fingers  and  toes  and 
some  of  his  face;  but  the  boys  would  take  care 
of  him,  and  save  the  rest  of  him  when  he  got 


94  TO   BUILD   A  FIRE 

there.  And  at  the  same  time  there  was  another 
thought  in  his  mind  that  said  he  would  never 
get  to  the  camp  and  the  boys;  that  it  was  too 
many  miles  away,  that  the  freezing  had  too 
great  a  start  on  him,  and  that  he  would  soon  be 
stiff  and  dead.  This  thought  he  kept  in  the 
background  and  refused  to  consider.  Some 
times  it  pushed  itself  forward  and  demanded  to 
be  heard,  but  he  thrust  it  back  and  strove  to 
think  of  other  things. 

It  struck  him  as  curious  that  he  could  run  at 
all  on  feet  so  frozen  that  he  could  not  feel  them 
when  they  struck  the  earth  and  took  the  weight 
of  his  body.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  skim 
along  above  the  surface,  and  to  have  no  con 
nection  with  the  earth.  Somewhere  he  had 
once  seen  a  winged  Mercury,  and  he  wondered 
if  Mercury  felt  as  he  felt  when  skimming  over 
the  earth. 

His  theory  of  running  until  he  reached  camp 
and  the  boys  had  one  flaw  in  it:  he  lacked  the 
endurance.  Several  times  he  stumbled,  and 
finally  he  tottered,  crumpled  up,  and  fell. 
When  he  tried  to  rise,  he  failed.  He  must  sit 


TO   BUILD   A   FIRE  95 

and  rest,  he  decided,  and  next  time  he  would 
merely  walk  and  keep  on  going.  As  he  sat  and 
regained  his  breath,  he  noted  that  he  was  feel 
ing  quite  warm  and  comfortable.  He  was  not 
shivering,  and  it  even  seemed  that  a  warm  glow 
had  come  to  his  chest  and  trunk.  And  yet, 
when  he  touched  his  nose  or  cheeks,  there  was 
no  sensation.  Running  would  not  thaw  them 
out.  Nor  would  it  thaw  out  his  hands  and 
feet.  Then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  the 
frozen  portions  of  his  body  must  be  extending. 
He  tried  to  keep  this  thought  down,  to  forget 
it,  to  think  of  something  else;  he  was  aware 
of  the  panicky  feeling  that  it  caused,  and  he 
was  afraid  of  the  panic.  But  the  thought  as 
serted  itself,  and  persisted,  until  it  produced  a 
vision  of  his  body  totally  frozen.  This  was 
too  much,  and  he  made  another  wild  run  along 
the  trail.  Once  he  slowed  down  to  a  walk, 
but  the  thought  of  the  freezing  extending  itself 
made  him  run  again. 

And  all  the  time  the  dog  ran  with  him,  at  his 
heels.  When  he  fell  down  a  second  time,  it 
curled  its  tail  over  its  forefeet  and  sat  in  front 


96  TO    BUILD   A   FIRE 

of  him,  facing  him,  curiously  eager  and  intent. 
The  warmth  and  security  of  the  animal  angered 
him,  and  he  cursed  it  till  it  flattened  down 
its  ears  appeasingly.  This  time  the  shivering 
came  more  quickly  upon  the  man.  He  was 
losing  in  his  battle  with  the  frost.  It  was  creep 
ing  into  his  body  from  all  sides.  The  thought 
of  it  drove  him  on,  but  he  ran  no  more  than  a 
hundred  feet,  when  he  staggered  and  pitched 
headlong.  It  was  his  last  panic.  When  he  had 
recovered  his  breath  and  control,  he  sat  up  and 
entertained  in  his  mind  the  conception  of  meet 
ing  death  with  dignity.  However,  the  concep 
tion  did  not  come  to  him  in  such  terms.  His 
idea  of  it  was  that  he  had  been  making  a  fool 
of  himself,  running  around  like  a  chicken  with 
its  head  cut  off — such  was  the  simile  that  oc 
curred  to  him.  Well,  he  was  bound  to  freeze 
anyway,  and  he  might  as  well  take  it  decently. 
With  this  new-found  peace  of  mind  came  the 
first  glimmerings  of  drowsiness.  A  good  idea,  he 
thought,  to  sleep  off  to  death.  It  was  like  taking 
an  anaesthetic.  Freezing  was  not  so  bad  as  people 
thought.  There  were  lots  worse  ways  to  die. 


TO    BUILD   A   FIRE  97 

He  pictured  the  boys  finding  his  body  next 
day.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  with  them, 
coming  along  the  trail  and  looking  for  him 
self.  And,  still  with  them,  he  came  around  a 
turn  in  the  trail  and  found  himself  lying  in  the 
snow.  He  did  not  belong  with  himself  any 
more,  for  even  then  he  was  out  of  himself, 
standing  with  the  boys  and  looking  at  himself 
in  the  snow.  It  certainly  was  cold,  was  his 
thought.  When  he  got  back  to  the  States  he 
could  tell  the  folks  what  real  cold  was.  He 
drifted  on  from  this  to  a  vision  of  the  old-timer 
on  Sulphur  Creek.  He  could  see  him  quite 
clearly,  warm  and  comfortable,  and  smoking 
a  pipe. 

"You  were  right,  old  hoss;  you  were  right," 
the  man  mumbled  to  the  old-timer  of  Sulphur 
Creek. 

Then  the  man  drowsed  off  into  what  seemed 
to  him  the  most  comfortable  and  satisfying 
sleep  he  had  ever  known.  The  dog  sat  facing 
him  and  waiting.  The  brief  day  drew  to  a  close 
in  a  long,  slow  twilight.  There  were  no  signs 
of  a  fire  to  be  made,  and,  besides,  never  in  the 


98  TO   BUILD   A   FIRE 

dog's  experience  had  it  known  a  man  to  sit  like 
that  in  the  snow  and  make  no  fire.  As  the 
twilight  drew  on,  its  eager  yearning  for  the  fire 
mastered  it,  and  with  a  great  lifting  and  shift 
ing  of  forefeet,  it  whined  softly,  then  flattened 
its  ears  down  in  anticipation  of  being  chidden 
by  the  man.  But  the  man  remained  silent. 
Later,  the  dog  whined  loudly.  And  still  later 
it  crept  close  to  the  man  and  caught  the  scent 
of  death.  This  made  the  animal  bristle  and 
back  away.  A  little  longer  it  delayed,  howling 
under  the  stars  that  leaped  and  danced  and 
shone  brightly  in  the  cold  sky.  Then  it  turned 
and  trotted  up  the  trail  in  the  direction  of  the 
camp  it  knew,  where  were  the  other  food- 
providers  and  fire-providers. 


THAT  SPOT 


THAT  SPOT 

I  DON'T  think  much  of  Stephen  Mackaye 
any  more,  though  I  used  to  swear  by  him. 
I  know  that  in  those  days  I  loved  him  more 
than  my  own  brother.  If  ever  I  meet  Stephen 
Mackaye  again,  I  shall  not  be  responsible  for 
my  actions.  It  passes*  beyond  me  that  a  man 
with  whom  I  shared  food  and  blanket,  and 
with  whom  I  mushed  over  the  Chilcoot  Trail, 
should  turn  out  the  way  he  did.  I  always 
sized  Steve  up  as  a  square  man,  a  kindly  com 
rade,  without  •  an  iota  of  anything  vindictive 
or  malicious  in  his  nature.  I  shall  never  trust 
my  judgment  in  men  again.  Why,  I  nursed 
that  man  through  typhoid  fever;  we  starved 
together  on  the  headwaters  of.  the  Stewart; 
and  he  saved  my  life  on  the  Little  Salmon. 
And  now,  after  the  years  we  were  together* 
all  I  can  say  of  Stephen  Mackaye  is  that  he  is 
the  meanest  man  I  ever  knew. 


102  THAT  SPOT 

We  started  for  the  Klondike  in  the  fall  rush 
of  1897,  and  we  started  too  late  to  get  over 
Chilcoot  Pass  before  the  freeze-up.  We  packed 
our  outfit  on  our  backs  part  way  over,  when 
the  snow  began  to  fly,  and  then  we  had  to  buy 
dogs  in  order  to  sled  it  the  rest  of  the  way. 
That  was  how  we  came  to  get  that  Spot.  Dogs 
were  high,  and  we  paid  one  hundred  and  ten 
dollars  for  him.  He  looked  worth  it.  I  say 
looked,  because  he  was  one  of  the  finest-appear 
ing  dogs  I  ever  saw.  He  weighed  sixty  pounds, 
and  he  had  all  the  lines  of  a  good  sled  animal. 
We  never  could  make  out  his  breed.  He 
wasn't  husky,  nor  Malemute,  nor  Hudson 
Bay;  he  looked  like  all  of  them  and  he  didn't 
look  like  any  of  them ;  and  on  top  of  it  all  he  had 
some  of  the  white  man's  dog  in  him,  for  on  one 
side,  in  the  thick  of  the  mixed  yellow-brown- 
red-and-dirty-white  that  was  his  prevailing 
color,  there  was  a  spot  of  coal-black  as  big  as  a 
water-bucket.  That  was  why  we  called  him 
Spot. 

He  was  a  good  looker  all  right.  When  he 
was  in  condition  his  muscles  stood  out  in  bunches 


THAT   SPOT  103 

all  over  him.  And  he  was  the  strongest-look 
ing  brute  I  ever  saw  in  Alaska,  also  the  most 
intelligent-looking.  To  run  your  eyes  over 
him,  you'd  think  he  could  outpull  three  dogs 
of  his  own  weight.  Maybe  he  could,  but  I 
never  saw  it.  His  intelligence  didn't  run  that 
way.  He  could  steal  and  forage  to  perfection; 
he  had  an  instinct  that  was  positively  grewsome 
for  divining  when  work  was  to  be  done  and  for 
making  a  sneak  accordingly;  and  for  getting 
lost  and  not  staying  lost  he  was  nothing  short 
of  inspired.  But  when  it  came  to  work,  the 
way  that  intelligence  dribbled  out  of  him  and 
left  him  a  mere  clot  of  wobbling,  stupid  jelly 
would  make  your  heart  bleed. 

There  are  times  when  I  think  it  wasn't  stu 
pidity.  Maybe,  like  some  men  I  know,  he  was 
too  wise  to  work.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
put  it  all  over  us  with  that  intelligence  of  his. 
Maybe  he  figured  it  all  out  and  decided  that  a 
licking  now  and  again  and  no  work  was  a  whole 
lot  better  than  work  all  the  time  and  no  licking. 
He  was  intelligent  enough  for  such  a  computa 
tion.  I  tell  you,  I've  sat  and  looked  into  that 


104  THAT   SPOT 

dog's  eyes  till  the  shivers  ran  up  and  down  my 
spine  and  the  marrow  crawled  like  yeast,  what 
of  the  intelligence  I  saw  shining  out.  I  can't 
express  myself  about  that  intelligence.  It  is 
beyond  mere  words.  I  saw  it,  that's  all.  At 
times  it  was  like  gazing  into  a  human  soul,  to 
look  into  his  eyes;  and  what  I  saw  there 
frightened  me  and  started  all  sorts  of  ideas 
in  my  own  mind  of  reincarnation  and  all  the 
rest.  I  tell  you  I  sensed  something  big  in  that 
brute's  eyes;  there  was  a  message  there,  but 
I  wasn't  big  enough  myself  to  catch  it.  What 
ever  it  was  (I  know  I'm  making  a  fool  of  my 
self)  —  whatever  it  was,  it  baffled  me.  I  can't 
give  an  inkling  of  what  I  saw  in  that  brute's 
eyes;  it  wasn't  light,  it  wasn't  color;  it  was 
something  that  moved,  away  back,  when  the 
eyes  themselves  weren't  moving.  And  I  guess 
I  didn't  see  it  move,  either;  I  only  sensed  that 
it  moved.  It  was  an  expression,  —  that's  what 
it  was,  —  and  I  got  an  impression  of  it.  No; 
it  was  different  from  a  mere  expression;  it  was 
more  than  that.  I  don't  know  what  it  was, 
but  it  gave  me  a  feeling  of  kinship  just  the  same. 


THAT  SPOT  105 

Oh,  no,  not  sentimental  kinship.  It  was, 
rather,  a  kinship  of  equality.  Those  eyes 
never  pleaded  like  a  deer's  eyes.  They  chal 
lenged.  No,  it  wasn't  defiance.  It  was  just 
a  calm  assumption  of  equality.  And  I  don't 
think  it  was  deliberate.  My  belief  is  that  it 
was  unconscious  on  his  part.  It  was  there 
because  it  was  there,  and  it  couldn't  help  shin 
ing  out.  No,  I  don't  mean  shine.  It  didn't 
shine;  it  moved.  I  know  I'm  talking  rot,  but 
if  you'd  looked  into  that  animal's  eyes  the  way 
I  have,  you'd  understand.  Steve  was  affected 
the  same  way  I  was.  Why,  I  tried  to  kill  that 
Spot  once  —  he  was  no  good  for  anything; 
and  I  fell  down  on  it.  I  led  him  out  into  the 
brush,  and  he  came  along  slow  and  unwilling. 
He  knew  what  was  going  on.  I  stopped  in  a 
likely  place,  put  my  foot  on  the  rope,  and  pulled 
my  big  Colt's.  And  that  dog  sat  down  and 
looked  at  me.  I  tell  you  he  didn't  plead.  He 
just  looked.  And  I  saw  all  kinds  of  incom 
prehensible  things  moving,  yes,  moving,  in  those 
eyes  of  his.  I  didn't  really  see  them  move; 
I  thought  I  saw  them,  for,  as  I  said  before,  I 


io6  THAT   SPOT 

guess  I  only  sensed  them.  And  I  want  to  tell 
you  right  now  that  it  got  beyond  me.  It  was 
like  killing  a  man,  a  conscious,  brave  man  who 
looked  calmly  into  your  gun  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Who's  afraid?"  Then,  too,  the  message 
seemed  so  near  that,  instead  of  pulling  the 
trigger  quick,  I  stopped  to  see  if  I  could  catch 
the  message.  There  it  was,  right  before  me, 
glimmering  all  around  in  those  eyes  of  his. 
And  then  it  was  too  late.  I  got  scared.  I  was 
trembly  all  over,  and  my  stomach  generated 
a  nervous  palpitation  that  made  me  seasick. 
I  just  sat  down  and  looked  at  that  dog,  and  he 
looked  at  me,  till  I  thought  I  was  going  crazy. 
Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  did  ?  I  threw  down 
the  gun  and  ran  back  to  camp  with  the  fear  of  God 
in  my  heart.  Steve  laughed  at  me.  But  I  notice 
that  Steve  led  Spot  into  the  woods,  a  week  later, 
for  the  same  purpose,  and  that  Steve  came  back 
alone,  and  a  little  later  Spot  drifted  back,  too. 
At  any  rate,  Spot  wouldn't  work.  We  paid 
a  hundred  and  ten  dollars  for  him  from  the  bot 
tom  of  our  sack,  and  he  wouldn't  work.  He 
wouldn't  even  tighten  the  traces.  Steve  spoke 


THAT   SPOT  107 

to  him  the  first  time  we  put  him  in  harness, 
and  he  sort  of  shivered,  that  was  all.  Not  an 
ounce  on  the  traces.  He  just  stood  still  and 
wobbled,  like  so  much  jelly.  Steve  touched  him 
with  the  whip.  He  yelped,  but  not  an  ounce. 
Steve  touched  him  again,  a  bit  harder,  and  he 
howled  —  the  regular  long  wolf  howl.  Then 
Steve  got  mad  and  gave  him  half  a  dozen,  and 
I  came  on  the  run  from  the  tent. 

I  told  Steve  he  was  brutal  with  the  animal, 
and  we  had  some  words  —  the  first  we'd  ever 
had.  He  threw  the  whip  down  in  the  snow 
and  walked  away  mad.  I  picked  it  up  and 
went  to  it.  That  Spot  trembled  and  wobbled 
and  cowered  before  ever  I  swung  the  lash,  and 
with  the  first  bite  of  it  he  howled  like  a  lost 
soul.  Next  he  lay  down  in  the  snow.  I  started 
the  rest  of  the  dogs,  and  they  dragged  him  along 
while  I  threw  the  whip  into  him.  He  rolled 
over  on  his  back  and  bumped  along,  his  four 
legs  waving  in  the  air,  himself  howling  as 
though  he  was  going  through  a  sausage  ma 
chine.  Steve  came  back  and  laughed  at  me, 
and  I  apologized  for  what  I'd  said. 


108  THAT   SPOT 

There  was  no  getting  any  work  out  of  that 
Spot;  and  to  make  up  for  it,  he  was  the  biggest 
pig-glutton  of  a  dog  I  ever  saw.  On  top  of 
that,  he  was  the  cleverest  thief.  There  was  no 
circumventing  him.  Many  a  breakfast  we  went 
without  our  bacon  because  Spot  had  been  there 
first.  And  it  was  because  of  him  that  we  nearly 
starved  to  death  up  the  Stewart.  He  figured 
out  the  way  to  break  into  our  meat-cache,  and 
what  he  didn't  eat,  the  rest  of  the  team  did. 
But  he  was  impartial.  He  stole  from  every 
body.  He  was  a  restless  dog,  always  very  busy 
snooping  around  or  going  somewhere.  And 
there  was  never  a  camp  within  five  miles  that  he 
didn't  raid.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  they 
always  came  back  on  us  to  pay  his  board  bill, 
which  was  just,  being  the  law  of  the  land;  but 
it  was  mighty  hard  on  us,  especially  that  first 
winter  on  the  Chilcoot,  when  we  were  busted, 
paying  for  whole  hams  and  sides  of  bacon  that 
we  never  ate.  He  could  fight,  too,  that  Spot. 
He  could  do  everything  but  work.  He  never 
pulled  a  pound,  but  he  was  the  boss  of  the  whole 
team.  The  way  he  made  those  dogs  stand 


THAT  SPOT  109 

around  was  an  education.  He  bullied  them, 
and  there  was  always  one  or  more  of  them 
fresh-marked  with  his  fangs.  But  he  was  more 
than  a  bully.  He  wasn't  afraid  of  anything 
that  walked  on  four  legs;  and  I've  seen  him 
march,  single-handed,  into  a  strange  team,  with 
out  any  provocation  whatever,  and  put  the 
kibosh  on  the  whole  outfit.  Did  I  say  he  could 
eat  ?  I  caught  him  eating  the  whip  once. 
That's  straight.  He  started  in  at  the  lash,  and 
when  I  caught  him  he  was  down  to  the  handle, 
and  still  going. 

But  he  was  a  good  looker.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  week  we  sold  him  for  seventy-five  dollars 
to  the  Mounted  Police.  They  had  experienced 
dog-drivers,  and  we  knew  that  by  the  time  he'd 
covered  the  six  hundred  miles  to  Dawson  he'd 
be  a  good  sled-dog.  I  say  we  knew,  for  we 
were  just  getting  acquainted  with  that  Spot. 
A  little  later  we  were  not  brash  enough  to  know 
anything  where  he  was  concerned.  A  week 
later  we  woke  up  in  the  morning  to  the  dang- 
dest  dog-fight  we'd  ever  heard.  It  was  that 
Spot  come  back  and  knocking  the  team  into 


i io  THAT   SPOT 

shape.  We  ate  a  pretty  depressing  breakfast, 
I  can  tell  you;  but  cheered  up  two  hours  after 
ward  when  we  sold  him  to  an  official  courier, 
bound  in  to  Dawson  with  government  de 
spatches.  That  Spot  was  only  three  days  in 
coming  back,  and,  as  usual,  celebrated  his  ar 
rival  with  a  rough-house. 

We  spent  the  winter  and  spring,  after  our  own 
outfit  was  across  the  pass,  freighting  other 
people's  outfits;  and  we  made  a  fat  stake. 
Also,  we  made  money  out  of  Spot.  If  we  sold 
him  once,  we  sold  him  twenty  times.  He  al 
ways  came  back,  and  no  one  asked  for  their 
money.  We  didn't  want  the  money.  We'd 
have  paid  handsomely  for  any  one  to  take  him 
off  our  hands  for  keeps.  We  had  to  get  rid  of 
him,  and  we  couldn't  give  him  away,  for  that 
would  have  been  suspicious.  But  he  was  such 
a  fine  looker  that  we  never  had  any  difficulty  in 
selling  him.  "Unbroke,"  we'd  say,  and  they'd 
pay  any  old  price  for  him.  We  sold  him  as 
low  as  twenty-five  dollars,  and  once  we  got  a 
hundred  and  fifty  for  him.  That  particular 
party  returned  him  in  person,  refused  to  take 


THAT   SPOT  in 

his  money  back,  and  the  way  he  abused  us  was 
something  awful.  He  said  it  was  cheap  at  the 
price  to  tell  us  what  he  thought  of  us;  and  we 
felt  he  was  so  justified  that  we  never  talked 
back.  But  to  this  day  I've  never  quite  regained 
all  the  old  self-respect  that  was  mine  before  that 
man  talked  to  me. 

When  the  ice  cleared  out  of  the  lakes  and 
river,  we  put  our  outfit  in  a  Lake  Bennett 
boat  and  started  for  Dawson.  We  had  a  good 
team  of  dogs,  and  of  course  we  piled  them  on 
top  the  outfit.  That  Spot  was  along  —  there 
was  no  losing  him;  and  a  dozen  times,  the  first 
day,  he  knocked  one  or  another  of  the  dogs 
overboard  in  the  course  of  fighting  with  them. 
It  was  close  quarters,  and  he  didn't  like  being 
crowded. 

"What  that  dog  needs  is  space,"  Steve  said 
the  second  day.  "Let's  maroon  him." 

We  did,  running  the  boat  in  at  Caribou  Cross 
ing  for  him  to  jump  ashore.  Two  of  the  other 
dogs,  good  dogs,  followed  him ;  and  we  lost  two 
whole  days  trying  to  find  them.  We  never  saw 
those  two  dogs  again;  but  the  quietness  and 


ii2  THAT  SPOT 

relief  we  enjoyed  made  us  decide,  like  the  man 
who  refused  his  hundred  and  fifty,  that  it  was 
cheap  at  the  price.  For  the  first  time  in  months 
Steve  and  I  laughed  and  whistled  and  sang. 
We  were  as  happy  as  clams.  The  dark  days 
were  over.  The  nightmare  had  been  lifted. 
That  Spot  was  gone. 

Three  weeks  later,  one  morning,  Steve  and  I 
were  standing  on  the  river-bank  at  Dawson. 
A  small  boat  was  just  arriving  from  Lake  Ben 
nett.  I  saw  Steve  give  a  start,  and  heard  him 
say  something  that  was  not  nice  and  that  was 
not  under  his  breath.  Then  I  looked ;  and  there, 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  with  ears  pricked  up,  sat 
Spot.  Steve  and  I  sneaked  immediately,  like 
beaten  curs,  like  cowards,  like  absconders  from 
justice.  It  was  this  last  that  the  lieutenant  of 
police  thought  when  he  saw  us  sneaking.  He 
surmised  that  there  were  law-officers  in  the  boat 
who  were  after  us.  He  didn't  wait  to  find  out, 
but  kept  us  in  sight,  and  in  the  M.  &.  M.  saloon 
got  us  in  a  corner.  We  had  a  merry  time  ex 
plaining,  for  we  refused  to  go  back  to  the  boat 
and  meet  Spot;  and  finally  he  held  us  under 


THAT  SPOT  113 

guard  of  another  policeman  while  he  went  to 
the  boat.  After  we  got  clear  of  him,  we  started 
for  the  cabin,  and  when  we  arrived,  there  was 
that  Spot  sitting  on  the  stoop  waiting  for  us. 
Now  how  did  he  know  we  lived  there  ?  There 
were  forty  thousand  people  in  Dawson  that 
summer,  and  how  did  he  savve  our  cabin  out 
of  all  the  cabins  ?  How  did  he  know  we  were 
in  Dawson,  anyway  ?  I  leave  it  to  you.  But 
don't  forget  what  I  have  said  about  his  intelli 
gence  and  that  immortal  something  I  have  seen 
glimmering  in  his  eyes. 

There  was  no  getting  rid  of  him  any  more. 
There  were  too  many  people  in  Dawson  who 
had  bought  him  up  on  Chilcoot,  and  the  story 
got  around.  Half  a  dozen  times  we  put  him  on 
board  steamboats  going  down  the  Yukon;  but 
he  merely  went  ashore  at  the  first  landing  and 
trotted  back  up  the  bank.  We  couldn't  sell 
him,  we  couldn't  kill  him  (both  Steve  and  I  had 
tried),  and  nobody  else  was  able  to  kill  him. 
He  bore  a  charmed  life.  I've  seen  him  go  down 
in  a  dog-fight  on  the  main  street  with  fifty  dogs 
on  top  of  him,  and  when  they  were  separated, 
i 


ii4  THAT   SPOT 

he'd  appear  on  all  his  four  legs,  unharmed, 
while  two  of  the  dogs  that  had  been  on  top  of 
him  would  be  lying  dead. 

I  saw  him  steal  a  chunk  of  moose-meat  from 
Major  Dinwiddie's  cache  so  heavy  that  he 
could  just  keep  one  jump  ahead  of  Mrs.  Din- 
widdie's  squaw  cook,  who  was  after  him  with  an 
axe.  As  he  went  up  the  hill,  after  the  squaw 
gave  up,  Major  Dinwiddie  himself  came  out  and 
pumped  his  Winchester  into  the  landscape.  He 
emptied  his  magazine  twice,  and  never  touched 
that  Spot.  Then  a  policeman  came  along  and 
arrested  him  for  discharging  firearms  inside 
the  city  limits.  Major  Dinwiddie  paid  his 
fine,  and  Steve  and  I  paid  him  for  the  moose- 
meat  at  the  rate  of  a  dollar  a  pound,  bones  and 
all.  That  was  what  he  paid  for  it.  Meat  was 
high  that  year. 

I  am  only  telling  what  I  saw  with  my  own 
eyes.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  something,  also. 
I  saw  that  Spot  fall  through  a  water-hole.  The 
ice  was  three  and  a  half  feet  thick,  and  the  cur 
rent  sucked  him  under  like  a  straw.  Three 
hundred  yards  below  was  the  big  water-hole  used 


THAT  SPOT  115 

by  the  hospital.  Spot  crawled  out  of  the  hos 
pital  water-hole,  licked  off  the  water,  bit  out  the 
ice  that  had  formed  between  his  toes,  trotted 
up  the  bank,  and  whipped  a  big  Newfoundland 
belonging  to  the  Gold  Commissioner. 

In  the  fall  of  1898,  Steve  and  I  poled  up  the 
Yukon  on  the  last  water,  bound  for  Stewart 
River.  We  took  the  dogs  along,  all  except  Spot. 
We  figured  we'd  been  feeding  him  long  enough. 
He'd  cost  us  more  time  and  trouble  and  money 
and  grub  than  we'd  got  by  selling  him  on  the 
Chilcoot  —  especially  grub.  So  Steve  and  I 
tied  him  down  in  the  cabin  and  pulled  our  freight. 
We  camped  that  night  at  the  mouth  of  Indian 
River,  and  Steve  and  I  were  pretty  facetious 
over  having  shaken  him.  Steve  was  a  funny 
cuss,  and  I  was  just  sitting  up  in  the  blankets 
and  laughing  when  a  tornado  hit  camp.  The 
way  that  Spot  walked  into  those  dogs  and  gave 
them  what-for  was  hair-raising.  Now  how 
did  he  get  loose  ?  It's  up  to  you.  I  haven't 
any  theory.  And  how  did  he  get  across  the 
Klondike  River  ?  That's  another  facer.  And 
anyway,  how  did  he  know  we  had  gone  up  the 


ii6  THAT  SPOT 

Yukon  ?  You  see,  we  went  by  water,  and  he 
couldn't  smell  our  tracks.  Steve  and  I  began 
to  get  superstitious  about  that  dog.  He  got  on 
our  nerves,  too ;  and,  between  you  and  me,  we 
were  just  a  mite  afraid  of  him. 

The  freeze-up  came  on  when  we  were  at  the 
mouth  of  Henderson  Creek,  and  we  traded  him 
off  for  two  sacks  of  flour  to  an  outfit  that  was 
bound  up  White  River  after  copper.  Now 
that  whole  outfit  was  lost.  Never  trace  nor 
hide  nor  hair  of  men,  dogs,  sleds,  or  anything 
was  ever  found.  They  dropped  clean  out  of 
sight.  It  became  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
country.  Steve  and  I  plugged  away  up  the 
Stewart,  and  six  weeks  afterward  that  Spot 
crawled  into  camp.  He  was  a  perambulating 
skeleton,  and  could  just  drag  along;  but  he  got 
there.  And  what  I  want  to  know  is  who  told 
him  we  were  up  the  Stewart  ?  We  could  have 
gone  a  thousand  other  places.  How  did  he 
know  ?  You  tell  me,  and  I'll  tell  you. 

No  losing  him.  At  the  Mayo  he  started  a 
row  with  an  Indian  dog.  The  buck  who  owned 
the  dog  took  a  swing  at  Spot  with  an  axe,  missed 


THAT  SPOT  117 

him,  and  killed  his  own  dog.  Talk  about  magic 
and  turning  bullets  aside  —  I,  for  one,  consider 
it  a  blamed  sight  harder  to  turn  an  axe  aside 
with  a  big  buck  at  the  other  end  of  it.  And  I 
saw  him  do  it  with  my  own  eyes.  That  buck 
didn't  want  to  kill  his  own  dog.  You've  got 
to  show  me. 

I  told  you  about  Spot  breaking  into  our  meat- 
cache.  It  was  nearly  the  death  of  us.  There 
wasn't  any  more  meat  to  be  killed,  and  meat  was 
all  we  had  to  live  on.  The  moose  had  gone 
back  several  hundred  miles  and  the  Indians 
with  them.  There  we  were.  Spring  was  on, 
and  we  had  to  wait  for  the  river  to  break.  We 
got  pretty  thin  before  we  decided  to  eat  the 
dogs,  and  we  decided  to  eat  Spot  first.  Do  you 
know  what  that  dog  did  ?  He  sneaked.  Now 
now  did  he  know  our  minds  were  made  up  to 
eat  him  ?  We  sat  up  nights  laying  for  him, 
but  he  never  came  back,  and  we  ate  the  other 
dogs.  We  ate  the  whole  team. 

And  now  for  the  sequel.  You  know  what  it  is 
when  a  big  river  breaks  up  and  a  few  billion 
tons  of  ice  go  out,  jamming  and  milling  and 


ii8  THAT  SPOT 

grinding.  Just  in  the  thick  of  it,  when  the 
Stewart  went  out,  rumbling  and  roaring,  we 
sighted  Spot  out  in  the  middle.  He'd  got  caught 
as  he  was  trying  to  cross  up  above  somewhere. 
Steve  and  I  yelled  and  shouted  and  ran  up  and 
down  the  bank,  tossing  our  hats  in  the  air. 
Sometimes  we'd  stop  and  hug  each  other,  we 
were  that  boisterous,  for  we  saw  Spot's  finish. 
He  didn't  have  a  chance  in  a  million.  He 
didn't  have  any  chance  at  all.  After  the  ice- 
run,  we  got  into  a  canoe  and  paddled  down  to 
the  Yukon,  and  down  the  Yukon  to  Dawson, 
stopping  to  feed  up  for  a  week  at  the  cabins  at 
the  mouth  of  Henderson  Creek.  And  as  we 
came  in  to  the  bank  at  Dawson,  there  sat  that 
Spot,  waiting  for  us,  his  ears  pricked  up,  his  tail 
wagging,  his  mouth  smiling,  extending  a  hearty 
welcome  to  us.  Now  how  did  he  get  out  of 
that  ice  ?  How  did  he  know  we  were  coming 
to  Dawson,  to  the  very  hour  and  minute,  to  be 
out  there  on  the  bank  waiting  for  us  ? 

The  more  I  think  of  that  Spot,  the  more  I 
am  convinced  that  there  are  things  in  this 
world  that  go  beyond  science.  On  no  scien- 


THAT  SPOT  119 

tific  grounds  can  that  Spot  be  explained.  It's 
psychic  phenomena,  or  mysticism,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort,  I  guess,  with  a  lot  of  The- 
osophy  thrown  in.  The  Klondike  is  a  good 
country.  I  might  have  been  there  yet,  and  be 
come  a  millionnaire,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Spot. 
He  got  on  my  nerves.  I  stood  him  for  two 
years  all  together,  and  then  I  guess  my  stamina 
broke.  It  was  the  summer  of  1899  when  I 
pulled  out.  I  didn't  say  anything  to  Steve. 
I  just  sneaked.  But  I  fixed  it  up  all  right.  I 
wrote  Steve  a  note,  and  enclosed  a  package  of 
"  rough-on-rats,"  telling  him  what  to  do  with 
it.  I  was  worn  down  to  skin  and  bone  by  that 
Spot,  and  I  was  that  nervous  that  I'd  jump  and 
look  around  when  there  wasn't  anybody  within 
hailing  distance.  But  it  was  astonishing  the  way 
I  recuperated  when  I  got  quit  of  him.  I  got 
back  twenty  pounds  before  I  arrived  in  San 
Francisco,  and  by  the  time  I'd  crossed  the  ferry 
to  Oakland  I  was  my  old  self  again,  so  that 
even  my  wife  looked  in  vain  for  any  change 
in  me. 
Steve  wrote  to  me  once,  and  his  letter  seemed 


i2o  THAT  SPOT 

irritated.  He  took  it  kind  of  hard  because  I'd 
left  him  with  Spot.  Also,  he  said  he'd  used 
the  "  rough-on-rats,"  per  directions,  and  that 
there  was  nothing  doing.  A  year  went  by.  I 
was  back  in  the  office  and  prospering  in  all 
ways  —  even  getting  a  bit  fat.  And  then  Steve 
arrived.  He  didn't  look  me  up.  I  read  his 
name  in  the  steamer  list,  and  wondered  why. 
But  I  didn't  wonder  long.  I  got  up  one  morn 
ing  and  found  that  Spot  chained  to  the  gate 
post  and  holding  up  the  milkman.  Steve 
went  north  to  Seattle,  I  learned,  that  very  morn 
ing.  I  didn't  put  on  any  more  weight.  My 
wife  made  me  buy  him  a  collar  and  tag,  and 
within  an  hour  he  showed  his  gratitude  by  kill 
ing  her  pet  Persian  cat.  There  is  no  getting 
rid  of  that  Spot.  He  will  be  with  me  until  I 
die,  for  he'll  never  die.  My  appetite  is  not 
so  good  since  he  arrived,  and  my  wife  says 
I  am  looking  peaked.  Last  night  that  Spot 
got  into  Mr.  Harvey's  hen-house  (Harvey  is 
my  next  door  neighbor)  and  killed  nineteen 
of  his  fancy-bred  chickens.  I  shall  have  to 
pay  for  them.  My  neighbors  on  the  other 


THAT   SPOT  121 

side  quarrelled  with  my  wife  and  then  moved 
out.  Spot  was  the  cause  of  it.  And  that 
is  why  I  am  disappointed  in  Stephen 
Mackaye.  I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  mean 
a  man. 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD 


FLUSH  OF  GOLD 

LON  McFANE  was  a  bit  grumpy,  what 
of  losing  his  tobacco  pouch,  or  else  he 
might  have  told  me,  before  we  got  to  it, 
something  about  the  cabin  at  Surprise  Lake.  All 
day,  turn  and  turn  about,  we  had  spelled  each 
other  at  going  to  the  fore  and  breaking  trail 
for  the  dogs.  It  was  heavy  snow-shoe  work, 
and  did  not  tend  to  make  a  man  voluble,  yet 
Lon  McFane  might  have  found  breath  enough 
at  noon,  when  we  stopped  to  boil  coffee,  with 
which  to  tell  me.  But  he  didn't.  Surprise 
Lake  ?  —  it  was  Surprise  Cabin  to  me.  I  had 
never  heard  of  it  before.  I  confess  I  was  a  bit 
tired.  I  had  been  looking  for  Lon  to  stop  and 
make  camp  any  time  for  an  hour;  but  I  had  too 
much  pride  to  suggest  making  camp  or  to  ask 
him  his  intentions;  and  yet  he  was  my  man, 
hired  at  a  handsome  wage  to  mush  my  dogs  for 
me  and  to  obey  my  commands.  I  guess  I  was 

"5 


126  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

a  bit  grumpy  myself.  He  said  nothing,  and  I 
was  resolved  to  ask  nothing,  even  if  we  tramped 
on  all  night. 

We  came  upon  the  cabin  abruptly.  For  a 
week  of  trail  we  had  met  no  one,  and,  in  my 
mind,  there  had  been  little  likelihood  of  meeting 
any  one  for  a  week  to  come.  And  yet  there  it 
was,  right  before  my  eyes,  a  cabin,  with  a  dim 
light  in  the  window  and  smoke  curling  up  from 
the  chimney. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me—"  I  began,  but 
was  interrupted  by  Lon,  who  muttered :  — 

"Surprise  Lake  —  it  lies  up  a  small  feeder 
half  a  mile  on.  It's  only  a  pond." 

"Yes,  but  the  cabin  —  who  lives  in  it?" 

"A  woman,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  next 
moment  Lon  had  rapped  on  the  door,  and  a 
woman's  voice  bade  him  enter. 

"Have  you  seen  Dave  recently?"  she  asked. 

"Nope,"  Lon  answered  carelessly.  "I've 
been  in  the  other  direction,  down  Circle  City 
way.  Dave's  up  Dawson  way,  ain't  he?" 

The  woman  nodded,  and  Lon  fell  to  un 
harnessing  the  dogs,  while  I  unlashed  the  sled 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  127 

and  carried  the  camp  outfit  into  the  cabin.  The 
cabin  was  a  large,  one-room  affair,  and  the 
woman  was  evidently  alone  in  it.  She  pointed 
to  the  stove,  where  water  was  already  boiling, 
and  Lon  set  about  the  preparation  of  supper, 
while  I  opened  the  fish-bag  and  fed  the  dogs. 
I  looked  for  Lon  to  introduce  us,  and  was  vexed 
that  he  did  not,  for  they  were  evidently  old  friends. 

"You  are  Lon  McFane,  aren't  you?"  I 
heard  her  ask  him.  "Why,  I  remember  you 
now.  The  last  time  I  saw  you  it  was  on  a 
steamboat,  wasn't  it  ?  I  remember.  .  .  ." 

Her  speech  seemed  suddenly  to  be  frozen 
by  the  spectacle  of  dread  which,  I  knew,  from 
the  terror  I  saw  mounting  in  her  eyes,  must 
be  on  her  inner  vision.  To  my  astonishment, 
Lon  was  affected  by  her  words  and  manner. 
His  face  showed  desperate,  for  all  his  voice 
sounded  hearty  and  genial,  as  he  said:  — 

"The  last  time  we  met  was  at  Dawson, 
Queen's  Jubilee,  or  Birthday,  or  something  — 
don't  you  remember  ?  —  the  canoe  races  in  the 
river,  and  the  obstacle  races  down  the  main 
street?" 


128  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

The  terror  faded  out  of  her  eyes  and  her  whole 
body  relaxed.  "Oh,  yes,  I  do  remember,"  she 
said.  "And  you  won  one  of  the  canoe  races." 

"How's  Dave  been  makin'  it  lately  ?  Strikin' 
it  as  rich  as  ever,  I  suppose?"  Lon  asked, with 
apparent  irrelevance. 

She  smiled  and  nodded,  and  then,  noticing 
that  I  had  unlashed  the  bed  roil,  she  indicated 
the  end  of  the  cabin  where  I  might  spread  it. 
Her  own  bunk,  I  noticed,  was  made  up  at  the 
opposite  end. 

"  I  thought  it  was  Dave  coming  when  I  heard 
your  dogs,"  she  said. 

After  that  she  said  nothing,  contenting  her 
self  with  watching  Lon's  cooking  operations, 
and  listening  the  while  as  for  the  sound  of  dogs 
along  the  trail.  I  lay  back  on  the  blankets  and 
smoked  and  watched.  Here  was  mystery;  I 
could  make  that  much  out,  but  no  more  could 
I  make  out.  Why  in  the  deuce  hadn't  Lon 
given  me  the  tip  before  we  arrived  ?  I  looked 
at  her  face,  unnoticed  by  her,  and  the  longer 
I  looked  the  harder  it  was  to  take  my  eyes 
away.  It  was  a  wonderfully  beautiful  face, 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  129 

unearthly,  I  may  say,  with  a  light  in  it  or  an 
expression  or  something  that  was  never  on 
land  or  sea.  Fear  and  terror  had  completely 
vanished,  and  it  was  a  placidly  beautiful  face  - 
if  by  "placid"  one  can  characterize  that  intan 
gible  and  occult  something  that  I  cannot  say 
was  a  radiance  or  a  light  any  more  than  I  can 
say  it  was  an  expression. 

Abruptly,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  she  became 
aware  of  my  presence. 

"Have  you  seen  Dave  recently?"  she  asked 
me.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say 
"Dave  who  ?"  when  Lon  coughed  in  the  smoke 
that  arose  from  the  sizzling  bacon.  The  bacon 
might  have  caused  that  cough,  but  I  took  it  as 
a  hint  and  left  my  question  unasked.  "No,  I 
haven't,"  I  answered.  "I'm  new  in  this  part 
of  the  country  —  " 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  she  inter 
rupted,  "that  you've  never  heard  of  Dave  — 
of  Big  Dave  Walsh?" 

"You  see,"  I  apologized,  "I'm  new  in  the 
country.  I've  put  in  most  of  my  time  in  the 
Lower  Country,  down  Nome  way." 


130  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

"Tell  him  about  Dave,"  she  said  to  Lon. 

Lon  seemed  put  out,  but  he  began  in  that 
hearty,  genial  manner  that  I  had  noticed  be 
fore.  It  seemed  a  shade  too  hearty  and  genial, 
and  it  irritated  me. 

"Oh,  Dave  is  a  fine  man,"  he  said.  "He's 
a  man,  every  inch  of  him,  and  he  stands  six  feet 
four  in  his  socks.  His  word  is  as  good  as  his 
bond.  The  man  lies  who  ever  says  Dave  told  a 
lie,  and  that  man  will  have  to  fight  with  me, 
too,  as  well  —  if  there's  anything  left  of  him 
when  Dave  gets  done  with  him.  For  Dave  is 
a  fighter.  Oh,  yes,  he's  a  scrapper  from  way 
back.  He  got  a  grizzly  with  a  '38  popgun.  He 
got  clawed  some,  but  he  knew  what  he  was 
doin'.  He  went  into  the  cave  on  purpose  to 
get  that  grizzly.  Traid  of  nothing.  Free  an' 
easy  with  his  money,  or  his  last  shirt  an'  match 
when  out  of  money.  Why,  he  drained  Sur 
prise  Lake  here  in  three  weeks  an'  took  out 
ninety  thousand,  didn't  he?"  She  flushed  and 
nodded  her  head  proudly.  Through  his  recital 
she  had  followed  every  word  with  keenest  in 
terest.  "An'  I  must  say,"  Lon  went  on,  "that 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  131 

I  was  disappointed  sore  on  not  meeting  Dave 
here  to-night/' 

Lon  served  supper  at  one  end  of  the  table 
of  whip-sawed  spruce,  and  we  fell  to  eating. 
A  howling  of  the  dogs  took  the  woman  to  the 
door.  She  opened  it  an  inch  and  listened. 

"Where  is  Dave  Walsh?"  I  asked,  in  an 
undertone.  "Dead,"  Lon  answered.  "In 
hell,  maybe.  I  don't  know.  Shut  up." 

"But  you  just  said  that  you  expected  to 
meet  him  here  to-night,"  I  challenged. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  can't  you,"  was  Lon's  reply, 
in  the  same  cautious  undertone. 

The  woman  had  closed  the  door  and  was 
returning,  and  I  sat  and  meditated  upon  the 
fact  that  this  man  who  told  me  to  shut  up  re 
ceived  from  me  a  salary  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  month  and  his  board. 

Lon  washed  the  dishes,  while  I  smoked  and 
watched  the  woman.  She  seemed  more  beau 
tiful  than  ever  —  strangely  and  weirdly  beauti 
ful,  it  is  true.  After  looking  at  her  steadfastly 
for  five  minutes,  I  was  compelled  to  come 
back  to  the  real  world  and  to  glance  at  Lon 


132  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

McFane.  This  enabled  me  to  know,  without 
discussion,  that  the  woman,  too,  was  real.  At 
first  I  had  taken  her  for  the  wife  of  Dave  Walsh ; 
but  if  Dave  Walsh  were  dead,  as  Lon  had  said, 
then  she  could  be  only  his  widow. 

It  was  early  to  bed,  for  we  faced  a  long  day 
on  the  morrow;  and  as  Lon  crawled  in  beside 
me  under  the  blankets,  I  ventured  a  question. 

"That  woman's  crazy,  isn't  she?" 

"Crazy  as  a  loon,"  he  answered. 

And  before  I  could  formulate  my  next  ques 
tion,  Lon  McFane,  I  swear,  was  off  to  sleep. 
He  always  went  to  sleep  that  way  —  just  crawled 
into  the  blankets,  closed  his  eyes,  and  was  off, 
a  demure  little  heavy  breathing  rising  on  the 
air.  Lon  never  snored. 

And  in  the  morning  it  was  quick  breakfast, 
feed  the  dogs,  load  the  sled,  and  hit  the  trail. 
We  said  good-by  as  we  pulled  out,  and  thewoman 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  us  off.  I 
carried  the  vision  of  her  unearthly  beauty  away 
with  me,  just  under  my  eyelids,  and  all  I  had  to 
do,  any  time,  was  to  close  them  and  see  her 
again.  The  way  was  unbroken,  Surprise  Lake 


FLUSH    OF    GOLD  133 

being  far  off  the  travelled  trails,  and  Lon  and  I 
took  turn  about  at  beating  down  the  feathery 
snow  with  our  big,  webbed  shoes  so  that  the 
dogs  could  travel.  "  But  you  said  you  expected 
to  meet  Dave  Walsh  at  the  cabin,"  trembled  on 
the  tip  of  my  tongue  a  score  of  times.  I  did 
not  utter  it.  I  would  wait  until  we  knocked 
off  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  And  when  the 
middle  of  the  day  came,  we  went  right  on,  for, 
as  Lon  explained,  there  was  a  camp  of  moose 
hunters  at  the  forks  of  the  Teelee,  and  we 
could  make  there  by  dark.  But  we  didn't 
make  there  by  dark,  for  Bright,  the  lead-dog, 
broke  his  shoulder-blade,  and  we  lost  an  hour 
over  him  before  we  shot  him.  Then,  crossing 
a  timber  jam  on  the  frozen  bed  of  the  Teelee,  the 
sled  suffered  a  wrenching  capsize,  and  it  was  a 
case  of  make  camp  and  repair  the  runner.  I 
cooked  supper  and  fed  the  dogs  while  Lon  made 
the  repairs,  and  together  we  got  in  the  night's 
supply  of  ice  and  firewood.  Then  we  sat  on 
our  blankets,  our  moccasins  steaming  on  up 
ended  sticks  before  the  fire,  and  had  our  even 
ing  smoke. 


134  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

"You  didn't  know  her?"  Lon  queried  sud 
denly.  I  shook  my  head. 

"  You  noticed  the  color  of  her  hair  and  eyes 
and  her  complexion,  well,  that's  where  she  got 
her  name  —  she  was  like  the  first  warm  glow 
of  a  golden  sunrise.  She  was  called  Flush  of 
Gold.  Ever  heard  of  her?" 

Somewhere  I  had  a  confused  and  misty  re 
membrance  of  having  heard  the  name,  yet  it 
meant  nothing  to  me.  "Flush  of  Gold,"  I 
repeated;  "sounds  like  the  name  of  a  dance- 
house  girl."  Lon  shook  his  head.  "No,  she 
was  a  good  woman,  at  least  in  that  sense,  though 
she  sinned  greatly  just  the  same." 

"  But  why  do  you  speak  always  of  her  in  the 
past  tense,  as  though  she  were  dead?" 

"  Because  of  the  darkness  on  her  soul  that  is 
the  same  as  the  darkness  of  death.  The  Flush 
of  Gold  that  I  knew,  that  Dawson  knew,  and  that 
Forty  Mile  knew  before  that,  is  dead.  That 
dumb,  lunatic  creature  we  saw  last  night  was 
not  Flush  of  Gold." 

"And  Dave?"  I  queried. 

"He  built  that  cabin,"  Lon  answered.     "He 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  135 

built  it  for  her  .  .  .  and  for  himself.  He  is 
dead.  She  is  waiting  for  him  there.  She  half 
believes  he  is  not  dead.  But  who  can  know 
the  whim  of  a  crazed  mind  ?  Maybe  she  wholly 
believes  he  is  not  dead.  At  any  rate,  she  waits 
for  him  there  in  the  cabin  he  built.  Who 
would  rouse  the  dead  ?  Then  who  would  rouse 
the  living  that  are  dead  ?  Not  I,  and  that  is  why 
I  let  on  to  expect  to  meet  Dave  Walsh  there 
last  night.  I'll  bet  a  stack  that  I'd  a  been 
more  surprised  than  she  if  I  had  met  him 
there  last  night." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  I  said.  "Begin  at 
the  beginning,  as  a  white  man  should,  and  tell 
me  the  whole  tale." 

And  Lon  began.  "Victor  Chauvet  was  an  old 
Frenchman  —  born  in  the  south  of  France. 
He  came  to  California  in  the  days  of  gold. 
He  was  a  pioneer.  He  found  no  gold,  but, 
instead,  became  a  maker  of  bottled  sunshine  - 
in  short,  a  grape-grower  and  wine-maker.  Also, 
he  followed  gold  excitements.  That  is  what 
brought  him  to  Alaska  in  the  early  days,  and 
over  the  Chilcoot  and  down  the  Yukon  long 


136  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

before  the  Carmack  strike.  The  old  town 
site  of  Ten  Mile  was  Chauvet's.  He  carried 
the  first  mail  into  Arctic  City.  He  staked  those 
coal-mines  on  the  Porcupine  a  dozen  years  ago. 
He  grubstaked  Loftus  into  the  Nippennuck 
Country.  Now  it  happened  that  Victor  Chauvet 
was  a  good  Catholic,  loving  two  things  in  this 
world,  wine  and  woman.  Wine  of  all  kinds  he 
loved,  but  of  woman,  only  one,  and  she  was 
the  mother  of  Marie  Chauvet." 

Here  I  groaned  aloud,  having  meditated  be 
yond  self-control  over  the  fact  that  I  paid  this 
man  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"    he  demanded. 

"Matter?"    I  complained.     "I  thought  you 
were  telling  the  story  of  Flush  of  Gold.     I  don* 
want  a   biography  of  your  old  French  wine- 
bibber." 

Lon  calmly  lighted  his  pipe,  took  one  good 
puff,  then  put  the  pipe  aside.  "And  you  asked 
me  to  begin  at  the  beginning,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  I;    "the  beginning." 

"And  the  beginning  of  Flush  of  Gold  is  the 
old  French  winebibber,  for  he  was  the  father  of 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  137 

Marie  Chauvet,  and  Marie  Chauvet  was  the 
Flush  of  Gold.  What  more  do  you  want  ? 
Victor  Chauvet  never  had  much  luck  to  speak  of. 
He  managed  to  live,  and  to  get  along,  and  to 
take  good  care  of  Marie,  who  resembled  the 
one  woman  he  had  loved.  He  took  very  good 
care  of  her.  Flush  of  Gold  was  the  pet  name 
he  gave  her.  Flush  of  Gold  Creek  was  named 
after  her  —  Flush  of  Gold  town  site,  too.  The 
old  man  was  great  on  town  sites,  only  he  never 
landed  them. 

"Now,  honestly,"  Lon  said,  with  one  of  his 
lightning  changes,  "you've  seen  her,  what  do 
you  think  of  her  —  of  her  looks,  I  mean  ?  How 
does  she  strike  your  beauty  sense  ?" 

"She  is  remarkably  beautiful,"  I  said.  "I 
never  saw  anything  like  her  in  my  life.  In 
spite  of  the  fact,  last  night,  that  I  guessed  she 
was  mad,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  of  her. 
It  wasn't  curiosity.  It  was  wonder,  sheer 
wonder,  she  was  so  strangely  beautiful." 

"She  was  more  strangely  beautiful  before 
the  darkness  fell  upon  her,"  Lon  said  softly. 
"She  was  truly  the  Flush  of  Gold.  She  turned 


138  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

all  men's  hearts  .  .  .  and  heads.  She  recalls, 
with  an  effort,  that  I  once  won  a  canoe  race  at 
Dawson  —  I,  who  once  loved  her,  and  was  told 
by  her  of  her  love  for  me.  It  was  her  beauty 
that  made  all  men  love  her.  She'd  a  got  the 
apple  from  Paris,  on  application,  and  there 
wouldn't  have  been  any  Trojan  War,  and  to  top 
it  off  she'd  have  thrown  Paris  down.  And 
now  she  lives  in  darkness,  and  she  who  was 
always  fickle,  for  the  first  time  is  constant  — 
and  constant  to  a  shade,  to  a  dead  man  she 
does  not  realize  is  dead. 

"And  this  is  the  way  it  was.  You  remem 
ber  what  I  said  last  night  of  Dave  Walsh  — 
Big  Dave  Walsh  ?  He  was  all  that  I  said,  and 
more,  many  times  more.  He  came  into  this 
country  in  the  late  eighties  —  that's  a  pioneer 
for  you.  He  was  twenty  years  old  then.  He 
was  a  young  bull.  When  he  was  twenty-five 
he  could  lift  clear  of  the  ground  thirteen  fifty- 
pound  sacks  of  flour.  At  first,  each  fall  of  the 
year,  famine  drove  him  out.  It  was  a  lone 
land  in  those  days.  No  river  steamboats,  no 
grub,  nothing  but  salmon  bellies  and  rabbit 


FLUSH  OF   GOLD  139 

tracks.  But  after  famine  chased  him  out  three 
years,  he  said  he'd  had  enough  of  being  chased; 
and  the  next  year  he  stayed.  He  lived  on 
straight  meat  when  he  was  lucky  enough  to  get 
it ;  he  ate  eleven  dogs  that  winter ;  but  he  stayed. 
And  the  next  winter  he  stayed,  and  the  next. 
He  never  did  leave  the  country  again.  He  was 
a  bull,  a  great  bull.  He  could  kill  the  strongest 
man  in  the  country  with  hard  work.  He  could 
outpack  a  Chilcat  Indian,  he  could  outpaddle 
a  Stick,  and  he  could  travel  all  day  with  wet  feet 
when  the  thermometer  registered  fifty  below 
zero,  and  that's  going  some,  I  tell  you,  for  vital 
ity.  You'd  freeze  your  feet  at  twenty-five  be 
low  if  you  wet  them  and  tried  to  keep  on. 

"Dave  Walsh  was  a  bull  for  strength.  And 
yet  he  was  soft  and  easy-natured.  Anybody 
could  do  him,  the  latest  short-horn  in  camp 
could  lie  his  last  dollar  out  of  him.  '  But  it 
doesn't  worry  me/  he  had  a  way  of  laughing  off 
his  softness;  'it  doesn't  keep  me  awake  nights/ 
Now  don't  get  the  idea  that  he  had  no  backbone. 
You  remember  about  the  bear  he  went  after 
with  the  popgun.  When  it  came  to  fighting, 


140  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

Dave  was  the  blamedest  ever.  He  was  the 
limit,  if  by  that  I  may  describe  his  unlimitedness 
when  he  got  into  action.  He  was  easy  and 
kind  with  the  weak,  but  the  strong  had  to  give 
trail  when  he  went  by.  And  he  was  a  man  that 
men  liked,  which  is  the  finest  word  of  all,  a 
man's  man. 

"Dave  never  took  part  in  the  big  stampede 
to  Dawson  when  Carmack  made  the  Bonanza 
strike.  You  see,  Dave  was  just  then  over  on 
Mammon  Creek  strikin'  it  himself.  He  dis 
covered  Mammon  Creek.  Cleaned  eighty-four 
thousand  up  that  winter,  and  opened  up  the 
claim  so  that  it  promised  a  couple  of  hundred 
thousand  for  the  next  winter.  Then,  summer 
bein'  on  and  the  ground  sloshy,  he  took  a  trip 
up  the  Yukon  to  Dawson  to  see  what  Carmack's 
strike  looked  like.  And  there  he  saw  Flush  of 
Gold.  I  remember  the  night.  I  shall  always 
remember.  It  was  something  sudden,  and  it 
makes  one  shiver  to  think  of  a  strong  man  with 
all  the  strength  withered  out  of  him  by  one  glance 
from  the  soft  eyes  of  a  weak,  blond,  female 
creature  like  Flush  of  Gold.  It  was  at  her 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  141 

dad's  cabin,  old  Victor  Chauvet's.  Some 
friend  had  brought  Dave  along  to  talk  over  town 
sites  on  Mammon  Creek.  But  little  talking 
did  he  do,  and  what  he  did  was  mostly  gib 
berish.  I  tell  you  the  sight  of  Flush  of  Gold 
had  sent  Dave  clean  daffy.  Old  Victor  Chauvet 
insisted  after  Dave  left  that  he  had  been  drunk. 
And  so  he  had.  He  was  drunk,  but  Flush  of 
Gold  was  the  strong  drink  that  made  him  so. 
"That  settled  it,  that  first  glimpse  he  caught 
of  her.  He  did  not  start  back  down  the  Yukon 
in  a  week,  as  he  had  intended.  He  lingered 
on  a  month,  two  months,  all  summer.  And  we 
who  had  suffered  understood,  and  wondered 
what  the  outcome  would  be.  Undoubtedly, 
in  our  minds,  it  seemed  that  Flush  of  Gold  had 
met  her  master.  And  why  not  ?  There  was  ro 
mance  sprinkled  all  over  Dave  Walsh.  He  was 
a  Mammon  King,  he  had  made  the  Mammon 
Creek  strike;  he  was  an  old  sour  dough,  one 
of  the  oldest  pioneers  in  the  land  —  men  turned 
to  look  at  him  when  he  went  by,  and  said  to 
one  another  in  awed  undertones,  'There  goes 
Dave  Walsh.'  And  why  not  ?  He  stood  six 


142  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

feet  four;  he  had  yellow  hair  himself  that  curled 
on  his  neck;  and  he  was  a  bull  —  a  yellow- 
maned  bull  just  turned  thirty-one. 

"And  Flush  of  Gold  loved  him,  and,  having 
danced  him  through  a  whole  summer's  court 
ship,  at  the  end  their  engagement  was  made 
known.  The  fall  of  the  year  was  at  hand, 
Dave  had  to  be  back  for  the  winter's  work  on 
Mammon  Creek,  and  Flush  of  Gold  refused 
to  be  married  right  away.  Dave  put  Dusky 
Burns  in  charge  of  the  Mammon  Creek  claim, 
and  himself  lingered  on  in  Dawson.  Little  use. 
She  wanted  her  freedom  a  while  longer;  she 
must  have  it,  and  she  would  not  marry  until 
next  year.  And  so,  on  the  first  ice,  Dave  Walsh 
went  alone  down  the  Yukon  behind  his  dogs, 
with  the  understanding  that  the  marriage 
would  take  place  when  he  arrived  on  the  first 
steamboat  of  the  next  year. 

"Now  Dave  was  as  true  as  the  Pole  Star, 
and  she  was  as  false  as  a  magnetic  needle  in  a 
cargo  of  loadstone.  Dave  was  as  steady  and 
solid  as  she  was  fickle  and  fly-away,  and  in 
some  way  Dave,  who  never  doubted  anybody, 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  143 

doubted  her.  It  was  the  jealousy  of  his  love, 
perhaps,  and  maybe  it  was  the  message  ticked 
off  from  her  soul  to  his;  but  at  any  rate  Dave 
was  worried  by  fear  of  her  inconstancy.  He 
was  afraid  to  trust  her  till  the  next  year,  he  had 
so  to  trust  her,  and  he  was  pretty  well  beside 
himself.  Some  of  it  I  got  from  old  Victor 
Chauvet  afterwards,  and  from  all  that  I  have 
pieced  together  I  conclude  that  there  was  some 
thing  of  a  scene  before  Dave  pulled  north  with 
his  dogs.  He  stood  up  before  the  old  French 
man,  with  Flush  of  Gold  beside  him,  and  an 
nounced  that  they  were  plighted  to  each  other. 
He  was  very  dramatic,  with  fire  in  his  eyes,  old 
Victor  said.  He  talked  something  about  *  until 
death  do  us  part';  and  old  Victor  especially 
remembered  that  at  one  place  Dave  took  her  by 
the  shoulder  with  his  great  paw  and  almost 
shook  her  as  he  said :  *  Even  unto  death  are 
you  mine,  and  I  would  rise  from  the  grave  to 
claim  you/  Old  Victor  distinctly  remembered 
those  words :  '  Even  unto  death  are  you  mine, 
and  I  would  rise  from  the  grave  to  claim  you/ 
And  he  told  me  afterwards  that  Flush  of  Gold 


144  FLUSH    OF   GOLD 

was  pretty  badly  frightened,  and  that  he  after 
wards  took  Dave  to  one  side  privately  and  told 
him  that  that  wasn't  the  way  to  hold  Flush  of 
Gold  —  that  he  must  humor  her  and  gentle  her 
if  he  wanted  to  keep  her. 

"There  is  no  discussion  in  my  mind  but  that 
Flush  of  Gold  was  frightened.  She  was  a  sav 
age  herself  in  her  treatment  of  men,  while  men 
had  always  treated  her  as  a  soft  and  tender 
and  too  utterly-utter  something  that  must  not 
be  hurt.  She  didn't  know  what  harshness  was 
.  .  .  until  Dave  Walsh,  standing  his  six  feet 
four,  a  big  bull,  gripped  her  and  pawed  her 
and  assured  her  that  she  was  his  until  death, 
and  then  some.  And  besides,  in  Dawson, 
that  winter,  was  a  music-player,  —  one  of  those 
macaroni-eating,  greasy-tenor-Eyetalian-dago 
propositions,  —  and  Flush  of  Gold  lost  her 
heart  to  him.  Maybe  it  was  only  fascination  — 
I  don't  know.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
she  really  did  love  Dave  Walsh.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  he  had  frightened  her  with  that 
even-unto-death,  rise-from-the-grave  stunt  of  his 
that  she  in  the  end  inclined  to  the  dago  music- 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  145 

player.  But  it  is  all  guesswork,  and  the  facts 
are  sufficient.  He  wasn't  a  dago;  he  was  a 
Russian  count  —  this  was  straight;  and  he 
wasn't  a  professional  piano-player  or  anything 
of  the  sort.  He  played  the  violin  and  the  piano, 
and  he  sang,  —  sang  well,  —  but  it  was  for 
his  own  pleasure  and  for  the  pleasure  of  those 
he  sang  for.  He  had  money,  too  —  and  right 
here  let  me  say  that  Flush  of  Gold  never  cared 
a  rap  for  money.  She  was  fickle,  but  she  was 
never  sordid. 

"But  to  be  getting  along.  She  was  plighted 
to  Dave,  and  Dave  was  coming  up  on  the  first 
steamboat  to  get  her  —  that  was  the  summer  of 
'98,  and  the  first  steamboat  was  to  be  expected 
the  middle  of  June.  And  Flush  of  Gold  was 
afraid  to  throw  Dave  down  and  face  him  after 
wards.  It  was  all  planned  suddenly.  The 
Russian  music-player,  the  Count,  was  her  obe 
dient  slave.  She  planned  it,  I  know.  I  learned 
as  much  from  old  Victor  afterwards.  The 
Count  took  his  orders  from  her,  and  caught 
that  first  steamboat  down.  It  was  the  Golden 
Rocket.  And  so  did  Flush  of  Gold  catch  it. 


146  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

And  so  did  I.  I  was  going  to  Circle  City,  and 
I  was  flabbergasted  when  I  found  Flush  of  Gold 
on  board.  I  didn't  see  her  name  down  on  the 
passenger  list.  She  was  with  the  Count  fellow 
all  the  time,  happy  and  smiling,  and  I  noticed 
that  the  Count  fellow  was  down  on  the  list  as 
having  his  wife  along.  There  it  was,  stateroom, 
number,  and  all.  The  first  I  knew  that  he  was 
married,  only  I  didn't  see  anything  of  the  wife 
.  .  .  unless  Flush  of  Gold  was  so  counted. 
I  wondered  if  they'd  got  married  ashore  before 
starting.  There'd  been  talk  about  them  in 
Dawson,  you  see,  and  bets  had  been  laid  that 
the  Count  fellow  had  cut  Dave  out. 

"I  talked  with  the  purser.  He  didn't  know 
anything  more  about  it  than  I  did;  he  didn't 
know  Flush  of  Gold,  anyway,  and  besides,  he 
was  almost  rushed  to  death.  You  know  what 
a  Yukon  steamboat  is,  but  you  can't  guess 
what  the  Golden  Rocket  was  when  it  left  Dawson 
that  June  of  1898.  She  was  a  hummer.  Be 
ing  the  first  steamer  out,  she  carried  all  the 
scurvy  patients  and  hospital  wrecks.  Then 
she  must  have  carried  a  couple  of  millions  of 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  147 

Klondike  dust  and  nuggets,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
packed  and  jammed  passenger  list,  deck  pas 
sengers  galore,  and  bucks  and  squaws  and  dogs 
without  end.  And  she  was  loaded  down  to  the 
guards  with  freight  and  baggage.  There  was 
a  mountain  of  the  same  on  the  fore-lower-deck, 
and  each  little  stop  along  the  way  added  to  it. 
I  saw  the  box  come  aboard  at  Teelee  Portage, 
and  I  knew  it  for  what  it  was,  though  I  little 
guessed  the  joker  that  was  in  it.  And  they 
piled  it  on  top  of  everything  else  on  the  fore- 
lower-deck,  and  they  didn't  pile  it  any  too 
securely  either.  The  mate  expected  to  come 
back  to  it  again,  and  then  forgot  about  it.  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  there  was  something 
familiar  about  the  big  husky  dog  that  climbed 
over  the  baggage  and  freight  and  lay  down 
next  to  the  box.  And  then  we  passed  the 
Glendale,  bound  up  for  Dawson.  As  she  sa 
luted  us,  I  thought  of  Dave  on  board  of  her 
and  hurrying  to  Dawson  for  Flush  of  Gold.  I 
turned  and  looked  at  her  where  she  stood  by 
the  rail.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  but  she  looked 
a  bit  frightened  by  the  sight  of  the  other  steamer, 


148  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

and  she  was  leaning  closely  to  the  Count  fellow 
as  for  protection.  She  needn't  have  leaned  so 
safely  against  him,  and  I  needn't  have  been  so 
sure  of  a  disappointed  Dave  Walsh  arriving 
at  Dawson.  For  Dave  Walsh  wasn't  on  the 
Glendale.  There  were  a  lot  of  things  I  didn't 
know,  but  was  soon  to  know  —  for  instance, 
that  the  pair  was  not  yet  married.  Inside  half 
an  hour  preparations  for  the  marriage  took 
place.  What  of  the  sick  men  in  the  main  cabin, 
and  of  the  crowded  condition  of  the  Golden 
Rocket,  the  likeliest  place  for  the  ceremony  was 
found  forward,  on  the  lower  deck,  in  an  open 
space  next  to  the  rail  and  gang-plank  and  shaded 
by  the  mountain  of  freight  with  the  big  box  on 
top  and  the  sleeping  dog  beside  it.  There  was 
a  missionary  on  board,  getting  off  at  Eagle 
City,  which  was  the  next  stop,  so  they  had  to 
use  him  quick.  That's  what  they'd  planned  to 
do,  get  married  on  the  boat. 

"  But  I've  run  ahead  of  the  facts.  The  reason 
Dave  Walsh  wasn't  on  the  Glendale  was  because 
he  was  on  the  Golden  Rocket.  It  was  this  way. 
After  loiterin'  in  Dawson  on  account  of  Flush 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  149 

of  Gold,  he  went  down  to  Mammon  Creek  on 
the  ice.  And  there  he  found  Dusky  Burns 
doing  so  well  with  the  claim,  there  was  no  need 
for  him  to  be  around.  So  he  put  some  grub  on 
the  sled,  harnessed  the  dogs,  took  an  Indian 
along,  and  pulled  out  for  Surprise  Lake.  He 
always  had  a  liking  for  that  section.  Maybe 
you  don't  know  how  the  creek  turned  out  to 
be  a  four-flusher;  but  the  prospects  were  good 
at  the  time,  and  Dave  proceeded  to  build  his 
cabin  and  hers.  That's  the  cabin  we  slept  in. 
After  he  finished  it,  he  went  off  on  a  moose  hunt 
to  the  forks  of  the  Teelee,  takin'  the  Indian 
along. 

"And  this  is  what  happened.  Came  on  a 
cold  snap.  The  juice  went  down  forty,  fifty, 
sixty  below  zero.  I  remember  that  snap  —  I 
was  at  Forty  Mile;  and  I  remember  the  very 
day.  At  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  the 
spirit  thermometer  at  the  N.  A.  T.  &  T.  Com 
pany's  store  went  down  to  seventy-five  below 
zero.  And  that  morning,  near  the  forks  of  the 
Teelee,  Dave  Walsh  was  out  after  moose  with 
that  blessed  Indian  of  his.  I  got  it  all  from 


150  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

the  Indian  afterwards  —  we  made  a  trip  over 
the  ice  together  to  Dyea.  That  morning  Mr. 
Indian  broke  through  the  ice  and  wet  himself 
to  the  waist.  Of  course  he  began  to  freeze 
right  away.  The  proper  thing  was  to  build  a 
fire.  But  Dave  Walsh  was  a  bull.  It  was 
only  half  a  mile  to  camp,  where  a  fire  was  already 
burning.  What  was  the  good  of  building 
another  ?  He  threw  Mr.  Indian  over  his  shoul 
der  —  and  ran  with  him  —  half  a  mile  —  with 
the  thermometer  at  seventy-five  below.  You 
know  what  that  means.  Suicide.  There's  no 
other  name  for  it.  Why,  that  buck  Indian 
weighed  over  two  hundred  himself,  and  Dave 
ran  half  a  mile  with  him.  Of  course  he  froze 
his  lungs.  Must  have  frozen  them  near  solid. 
It  was  a  tomfool  trick  for  any  man  to  do.  And 
anyway,  after  lingering  horribly  for  several 
weeks,  Dave  Walsh  died. 

"The  Indian  didn't  know  what  to  do  with 
the  corpse.  Ordinarily  he'd  have  buried  him 
and  let  it  go  at  that.  But  he  knew  that  Dave 
Walsh  was  a  big  man,  worth  lots  of  money,  a 
hi-yu  skookum  chief.  Likewise  he'd  seen  the 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  151 

bodies  of  other  bl-yu  skookums  carted  around 
the  country  like  they  were  worth  something 
So  he  decided  to  take  Dave's  body  to 
Forty  Mile,  which  was  Dave's  headquarters. 
You  know  how  the  ice  is  on  the  grass  roots  in 
this  country  —  well,  the  Indian  planted  Dave 
under  a  foot  of  soil  —  in  short,  he  put  Dave  on 
ice.  Dave  could  have  stayed  there  a  thou 
sand  years  and  still  been  the  same  old  Dave. 
You  understand — just  the  same  as  a  refrig 
erator.  Then  the  Indian  brings  over  a  whip- 
saw  from  the  cabin  at  Surprise  Lake  and  makes 
lumber  enough  for  the  box.  Also,  waiting  for 
the  thaw,  he  goes  out  and  shoots  about  ten 
thousand  pounds  of  moose.  This  he  keeps 
on  ice,  too.  Came  the  thaw.  The  Teelee 
broke.  He  built  a  raft  and  loaded  it  with  the 
meat,  the  big  box  with  Dave  inside,  and  Dave's 
team  of  dogs,  and  away  they  went  down  the 
Teelee. 

"The  raft  got  caught  on  a  timber  jam  and 
hung  up  two  days.  It  was  scorching  hot 
weather,  and  Mr.  Indian  nearly  lost  his  moose 
meat.  So  when  he  got  to  Teelee  Portage  he 


152  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

figured  a  steamboat  would  get  to  Forty  Mile 
quicker  than  his  raft.  He  transferred  his  cargo, 
and  there  you  are,  fore-lower  deck  of  the  Golden 
Rocke^  Flush  of  Gold  being  married,  and  Dave 
Walsh  in  his  big  box  casting  the  shade  for  her. 
And  there's  one  thing  I  clean  forgot.  No 
wonder  I  thought  the  husky  dog  that  came 
aboard  at  Teelee  Portage  was  familiar.  It  was 
Pee-lat,  Dave  Walsh's  lead-dog  and  favorite  — 
a  terrible  fighter,  too.  He  was  lying  down  be 
side  the  box. 

"Flush  of  Gold  caught  sight  of  me,  called 
me  over,  shook  hands  with  me,  and  introduced 
me  to  the  Count.  She  was  beautiful.  I  was 
as  mad  for  her  then  as  ever.  She  smiled  into 
my  eyes  and  said  I  must  sign  as  one  of  the  wit 
nesses.  And  there  was  no  refusing  her.  She 
was  ever  a  child,  cruel  as  children  are  cruel. 
Also,  she  told  me  she  was  in  possession  of  the 
only  two  bottles  of  champagne  in  Dawson  —  or 
that  had  been  in  Dawson  the  night  before;  and 
before  I  knew  it  I  was  scheduled  to  drink  her 
and  the  Count's  health.  Everybody  crowded 
'round,  the  captain  of  the  steamboat,  very 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  153 

prominent,  trying  to  ring  in  on  the  wine,  I  guess. 
It  was  a  funny  wedding.  On  the  upper  deck 
the  hospital  wrecks,  with  various  feet  in  the 
grave,  gathered  and  looked  down  to  see.  There 
were  Indians  all  jammed  in  the  circle,  too,  big 
bucks,  and  their  squaws  and  kids,  to  say  nothing 
of  about  twenty-five  snarling  wolf-dogs.  The 
missionary  lined  the  two  of  them  up  and  started 
in  with  the  service.  And  just  then  a  dog-fight 
started,  high  up  on  the  pile  of  freight  —  Pee-lat 
lying  beside  the  big  box,  and  a  white-haired  brute 
belonging  to  one  of  the  Indians.  The  fight 
wasn't  explosive  at  all.  The  brutes  just  snarled 
at  each  other  from  a  distance  —  tapping  at  each 
other  long-distance,  you  know,  saying  dast  and 
dassent,  dast  and  dassent.  The  noise  was 
rather  disturbing,  but  you  could  hear  the  mis 
sionary's  voice  above  it. 

"There  was  no  particularly  easy  way  of 
getting  at  the  two  dogs,  except  from  the  other 
side  of  the  pile.  But  nobody  was  on  that  side 
-  everybody  watching  the  ceremony,  you  see. 
Even  then  everything  might  have  been  all  right 
if  the  captain  hadn't  thrown  a  club  at  the  dogs. 


154  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

That  was  what  precipitated  everything.  As  I 
say,  if  the  captain  hadn't  thrown  that  club, 
nothing  might  have  happened. 

"The  missionary  had  just  reached  the  point 
where  he  was  saying  'In  sickness  and  in  health/ 
and  'Until  death  do  us  part.'  And  just  then  the 
captain  threw  the  club.  I  saw  the  whole  thing. 
It  landed  on  Pee-lat,  and  at  that  instant  the 
white  brute  jumped  him.  The  club  caused  it. 
Their  two  bodies  struck  the  box,  and  it  began 
to  slide,  its  lower  end  tilting  down.  It  was  a 
long  oblong  box,  and  it  slid  down  slowly  until 
it  reached  the  perpendicular,  when  it  came 
down  on  the  run.  The  onlookers  on  that  side 
the  circle  had  time  to  get  out  from  under.  Flush 
of  Gold  and  the  Count,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  circle,  were  facing  the  box;  the  missionary 
had  his  back  to  it.  The  box  must  have  fallen 
ten  feet  straight  up  and  down,  and  it  hit  end  on. 

"Now  mind  you,  not  one  of  us  knew  that 
Dave  Walsh  was  dead.  We  thought  he  was 
on  the  Glendale,  bound  for  Dawson.  The 
missionary  had  edged  off  to  one  side,  and  so 
Flush  of  Gold  faced  the  box  when  it  struck. 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  155 

It  was  like  in  a  play.  It  couldn't  have  been 
better  planned.  It  struck  on  end,  and  on  the 
right  end ;  the  whole  front  of  the  box  came  off; 
and  out  swept  Dave  Walsh  on  his  feet,  partly 
wrapped  in  a  blanket,  his  yellow  hair  flying 
and  showing  bright  in  the  sun.  Right  out  of 
the  box,  on  his  feet,  he  swept  upon  Flush  of 
Gold.  She  didn't  know  he  was  dead,  but  it  was 
unmistakable,  after  hanging  up  two  days  on  a 
timber  jam,  that  he  was  rising  all  right  from 
the  dead  to  claim  her.  Possibly  that  is  what 
she  thought.  At  any  rate,  the  sight  froze  her. 
She  couldn't  move.  She  just  sort  of  wilted 
and  watched  Dave  Walsh  coming  for  her.  And 
he  got  her.  It  looked  almost  as  though  he  threw 
his  arms  around  her,  but  whether  or  not  this 
happened,  down  to  the  deck  they  went  together. 
We  had  to  drag  Dave  Walsh's  body  clear  before 
we  could  get  hold  of  her.  She  was  in  a  faint, 
but  it  would  have  been  just  as  well  if  she  had 
never  come  out  of  that  faint;  for  when  she  did, 
she  fell  to  screaming  the  way  insane  people 
do.  She  kept  it  up  for  hours,  till  she  was  ex 
hausted.  Oh,  yes,  she  recovered.  You  saw 


156  FLUSH   OF   GOLD 

her  last  night,  and  know  how  much  recovered 
she  is.  She  is  not  violent,  it  is  true,  but  she 
lives  in  darkness.  She  believes  that  she  is 
waiting  for  Dave  Walsh,  and  so  sh?  waits 
in  the  cabin  he  built  for  her.  She  is  no 
longer  fickle.  It  is  nine  years  now  that  she 
has  been  faithful  to  Dave  Walsh,  and  the 
outlook  is  that  she'll  be  faithful  to  him  to 
the  end." 

Lon  McFane  pulled  down  the  top  of  the 
blankets  and  prepared  to  crawl  in. 

"We  have  her  grub  hauled  to  her  each  year," 
he  added,  "and  in  general  keep  an  eye  on  her. 
Last  night  was  the  first  time  she  ever  recognized 
me,  though." 

"Who  are  the  we?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,"  was  the  answer,  "the  Count  and  old 
Victor  Chauvet  and  me.  Do  you  know,  I 
think  the  Count  is  the  one  to  be  really  sorry 
for.  Dave  Walsh  never  did  know  that  she  was 
false  to  him.  And  she  does  not  suffer.  Her 
darkness  is  merciful  to  her." 

I  lay  silently  under  the  blankets  for  the  space 
of  a  minute. 


FLUSH   OF   GOLD  157 

"Is  the  Count  still  in  the  country?"  I 
asked. 

But  there  was  a  gentle  sound  of  heavy 
breathing,  and  I  knew  Lon  McFane  was 
asleep. 


THE   PASSING  OF  MARCUS 
O'BRIEN 


THE    PASSING   OF    MARCUS    O'BRIEN 

"  TT  is  the  judgment  of  this  court  that  you 
vamose  the  camp  ...  in  the  customary 
way,  sir,  in  the  customary  way." 

Judge  Marcus  O'Brien  was  absent-minded, 
and  Mucluc  Charley  nudged  him  in  the  ribs. 
Marcus  O'Brien  cleared  his  throat  and  went 
on:  — 

"Weighing  the  gravity  of  the  offence,  sir,  and 
the  extenuating  circumstances,  it  is- the  opinion 
of  this  court,  and  its  verdict,  that  you  be  out 
fitted  with  three  days'  grub.  That  will  do, 
I  think." 

Arizona  Jack  cast  a  bleak  glance  out  over  the 
Yukon.  It  was  a  swollen,  chocolate  flood, 
running  a  mile  wide  and  nobody  knew  how  deep. 
The  earth-bank  on  which  he  stood  was  ordi 
narily  a  dozen  feet  above  the  water,  but  the  river 
was  now  growling  at  the  top  of  the  bank,  de 
vouring,  instant  by  instant,  tiny  portions  of  the 

M  161 


162    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN 

top-standing  soil.  These  portions  went  into 
the  gaping  mouths  of  the  endless  army  of  brown 
swirls  and  vanished  away.  Several  inches 
more,  and  Red  Cow  would  be  flooded. 

"It  won't  do/'  Arizona  Jack  said  bitterly. 
"Three  days'  grub  ain't  enough." 

"There  was  Manchester,"  Marcus  O'Brien 
replied  gravely.  "He  didn't  get  any  grub." 

"And  they  found  his  remains  grounded  on  the 
Lower  River  an'  half  eaten  by  huskies,"  was 
Arizona  Jack's  retort.  "And  his  killin'  was 
without  provocation.  Joe  Deeves  never  did 
nothin',  never  warbled  once,  an'  jes'  because  his 
stomach  was  out  of  order,  Manchester  ups  an' 
plugs  him.  You  ain't  givin'  me  a  square  deal, 
O'Brien,  I  tell  you  that  straight.  Give  me  a 
week's  grub,  and  I  play  even  to  win  out.  Three 
days'  grub,  an'  I  cash  in." 

"What  for  did  you  kill  Ferguson?"  O'Brien 
demanded.  "I  haven't  any  patience  for  these 
unprovoked  killings.  And  they've  got  to  stop. 
Red  Cow's  none  so  populous.  It's  a  good 
camp,  and  there  never  used  to  be  any  killings. 
Now  they're  epidemic.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 


THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     163 

Jack,  but  you've  got  to  be  made  an  example  of. 
Ferguson  didn't  provoke  enough  for  a  killing." 

"Provoke!"  Arizona  Jack  snorted.  "I  tell 
you,  O'Brien,  you  don't  savve.  You  ain't  got 
no  artistic  sensibilities.  What  for  did  I  kill 
Ferguson?  What  for  did  Ferguson  sing  'Then 
I  wisht  I  was  a  little  bird'?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  Answer  me  that.  What  for 
did  he  sing  'little  bird,  little  bird'?  One  little 
bird  was  enough.  I  could  a-stood  one  little 
bird.  But  no,  he  must  sing  two  little  birds. 
I  gave  'm  a  chanst.  I  went  to  him  almighty 
polite  and  requested  him  kindly  to  discard  one 
little  bird.  I  pleaded  with  him.  There  was 
witnesses  that  testified  to  that." 

"An'  Ferguson  was  no  jay-throated  songster," 
some  one  spoke  up  from  the  crowd. 

O'Brien  betrayed  indecision. 

"Ain't  a  man  got  a  right  to  his  artistic  feel- 
in's?"  Arizona  Jack  demanded.  "I  gave  Fer 
guson  warnin'.  It  was  violatin'  my  own  nature 
to  go  on  listenin'  to  his  little  birds.  Why,  there's 
music  sharps  that  fine-strung  an'  keyed-up 
they'd  kill  for  heaps  less'n  I  did.  I'm  willin' 


164    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN 

to  pay  for  havin'  artistic  feelin's.  I  can  take 
my  medicine  an*  lick  the  spoon,  but  three  days' 
grub  is  drawin'  it  a  shade  fine,  that's  all,  an'  I 
hereby  register  my  kick.  Go  on  with  the 
funeral." 

O'Brien  was  still  wavering.  He  glanced  in 
quiringly  at  Mucluc  Charley. 

"I  should  say,  Judge,  that  three  days'  grub 
was  a  mite  severe,"  the  latter  suggested;  "but 
you're  runnin'  the  show.  When  we  elected  you 
judge  of  this  here  trial  court,  we  agreed  to  abide 
by  your  decisions,  an'  we've  done  it,  too,  b'gosh, 
an'  we're  goin'  to  keep  on  doin'  it." 

"Mebbe  I've  been  a  trifle  harsh,  Jack," 
O'Brien  said  apologetically  —  "I'm  that  worked 
up  over  those  killings;  an'  I'm  willing  to  make 
it  a  week's  grub."  He  cleared  his  throat  mag 
isterially  and  looked  briskly  about  him.  "And 
now  we  might  as  well  get  along  and  finish  up 
the  business.  The  boat's  ready.  You  go  and 
get  the  grub,  Leclaire.  We'll  settle  for  it  after 
ward." 

Arizona  Jack  looked  grateful,  and,  mutter 
ing  something  about  "dammed  little  birds," 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     165 

stepped  aboard  the  open  boat  that  rubbed 
restlessly  against  the  bank.  It  was  a  large 
skiff,  built  of  rough  pine  planks  that  had  been 
sawed  by  hand  from  the  standing  timber  of 
Lake  Lindeman,  a  few  hundred  miles  above, 
at  the  foot  of  Chilcoot.  In  the  boat  were  a  pair 
of  oars  and  Arizona  Jack's  blankets.  Leclaire 
brought  the  grub,  tied  up  in  a  flour-sack,  and 
put  it  on  board.  As  he  did  so,  he  whispered :  — 

"I  gave  you  good  measure,  Jack.  You 
done  it  with  provocation." 

"Cast  her  off!"    Arizona  Jack  cried. 

Somebody  untied  the  painter  and  threw  it  in. 
The  current  gripped  the  boat  and  whirled  it 
away.  The  murderer  did  not  bother  with  the 
oars,  contenting  himself  with  sitting  in  the  stern- 
sheets  and  rolling  a  cigarette.  Completing  it, 
he  struck  a  match  and  lighted  up.  Those  that 
watched  on  the  bank  could  see  the  tiny  puffs 
of  smoke.  They  remained  on  the  bank  till  the 
boat  swung  out  of  sight  around  the  bend  half  a 
mile  below.  Justice  had  been  done. 

The  denizens  of  Red  Cow  imposed  the  law 
and  executed  sentences  without  the  delays  that 


166     THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

mark  the  softness  of  civilization.  There  was  no 
law  on  the  Yukon  save  what  they  made  for 
themselves.  They  were  compelled  to  make  it 
for  themselves.  It  was  in  an  early  day  that 
Red  Cow  flourished  on  the  Yukon  —  1887  — 
and  the  Klondike  and  its  populous  stampedes 
lay  in  the  unguessed  future.  The  men  of  Red 
Cow  did  not  even  know  whether  their  camp 
was  situated  in  Alaska  or  in  the  Northwest 
Territory,  whether  they  drew  breath  under  the 
stars  and  stripes  or  under  the  British  flag.  No 
surveyor  had  ever  happened  along  to  give  them 
their  latitude  and  longitude.  Red  Cow  was 
situated  somewhere  along  the  Yukon,  and  that 
was  sufficient  for  them.  So  far  as  flags  were 
concerned,  they  were  beyond  all  jurisdiction. 
So  far  as  the  law  was  concerned,  they  were  in 
No-Man's  land. 

They  made  their  own  law,  and  it  was  very 
simple.  The  Yukon  executed  their  decrees. 
Some  two  thousand  miles  below  Red  Cow  the 
Yukon  flowed  into  Bering  Sea  through  a  delta 
a  hundred  miles  wide.  Every  mile  of  those  two 
thousand  miles  was  savage  wilderness.  It  was 


THE    PASSING   OF    MARCUS    O'BRIEN     167 

true,  where  the  Porcupine  flowed  into  the  Yukon 
inside  the  Arctic  Circle  there  was  a  Hudson  Bay 
Company  trading  post.  But  that  was  many 
hundreds  of  miles  away.  Also,  it  was  rumored 
that  many  hundreds  of  miles  farther  on  there 
were  missions.  This  last,  however,  was  merely 
rumor;  the  men  of  Red  Cow  had  never  been 
there.  They  had  entered  the  lone  land  by  way 
of  Chilcoot  and  the  head-waters  of  the  Yukon. 
The  men  of  Red  Cow  ignored  all  minor  of 
fences.  To  be  drunk  and  disorderly  and  to 
use  vulgar  language  were  looked  upon  as  natural 
and  inalienable  rights.  The  men  of  Red  Cow 

o 

were  individualists,  and  recognized  as  sacred  but 
two  things,  property  and  life.  There  were  no 
women  present  to  complicate  their  simple  mo 
rality.  There  were  only  three  log-cabins  in 
Red  Cow  —  the  majority  of  the  population  of 
forty  men  living  in  tents  or  brush  shacks;  and 
there  was  no  jail  in  which  to  confine  malefactors, 
while  the  inhabitants  were  too  busy  digging 
gold  or  seeking  gold  to  take  a  day  off  and  build 
a  jail.  Besides,  the  paramount  question  of 
grub  negatived  such  a  procedure.  Wherefore, 


168     THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

when  a  man  violated  the  rights  of  property  or 
life,  he  was  thrown  into  an  open  boat  and  started 
down  the  Yukon.  The  quantity  of  grub  he 
received  was  proportioned  to  the  gravity  of  the 
offence.  Thus,  a  common  thief  might  get  as 
much  as  two  weeks'  grub ;  an  uncommon  thief 
might  get  no  more  than  half  of  that.  A  mur 
derer  got  no  grub  at  all.  A  man  found  guilty 
of  manslaughter  would  receive  grub  for  from 
three  days  to  a  week.  And  Marcus  O'Brien 
had  been  elected  judge,  and  it  was  he  who 
apportioned  the  grub.  A  man  who  broke 
the  law  took  his  chances.  The  Yukon  swept 
him  away,  and  he  might  or  might  not  win  to 
Bering  Sea.  A  few  days'  grub  gave  him  a 
righting  chance.  No  grub  meant  practically 
capital  punishment,  though  there  was  a  slim 
chance,  all  depending  on  the  season  of  the  year. 
Having  disposed  of  Arizona  Jack  and  watched 
him  out  of  sight,  the  population  turned  from  the 
bank  and  went  to  work  on  its  claims  —  all  except 
Curly  Jim,  who  ran  the  one  faro  layout  in  all 
the  Northland  and  who  speculated  in  prospect- 
holes  on  the  side.  Two  things  happened  that 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     169 

day  that  were  momentous.  In  the  late  morning 
Marcus  O'Brien  struck  it.  He  washed  out  a 
dollar,  a  dollar  and  a  half,  and  two  dollars, 
from  three  successive  pans.  He  had  found 
the  streak.  Curly  Jim  looked  into  the  hole, 
washed  a  few  pans  himself,  and  offered  O'Brien 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  all  rights  —  five  thou 
sand  in  dust,  and,  in  lieu  of  the  other  five  thou 
sand,  a  half  interest  in  his  faro  layout.  O'Brien 
refused  the  offer.  He  was  there  to  make  money 
out  of  the  earth,  he  declared  with  heat,  and  not 
out  of  his  fellow-men.  And  anyway,  he  didn't 
like  faro.  Besides,  he  appraised  his  strike  at 
a  whole  lot  more  than  ten  thousand. 

The  second  event  of  moment  occurred  in  the 
afternoon,  when  Siskiyou  Pearly  ran  his  boat 
into  the  bank  and  tied  up.  He  was  fresh  from 
the  Outside,  and  had  in  his  possession  a  four- 
months-old  newspaper.  Furthermore,  he  had 
half  a  dozen  barrels  of  whiskey,  all  consigned 
to  Curly  Jim.  The  men  of  Red  Cow  quit  work. 
They  sampled  the  whiskey  —  at  a  dollar  a  drink, 
weighed  out  on  Curly's  scales;  and  they  dis 
cussed  the  news.  And  all  would  have  been  well, 


1 70    THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

had  not  Curly  Jim  conceived  a  nefarious  scheme, 
which  was,  namely,  first  to  get  Marcus  O'Brien 
drunk,  and  next,  to  buy  his  mine  from  him. 

The  first  half  of  the  scheme  worked  beauti 
fully.  It  began  in  the  early  evening,  and  by 
nine  o'clock  O'Brien  had  reached  the  singing 
stage.  He  clung  with  one  arm  around  Curly 
Jim's  neck,  and  even  essayed  the  late  lamented 
Ferguson's  song  about  the  little  birds.  He  con 
sidered  he  was  quite  safe  in  this,  what  of  the 
fact  that  the  only  man  in  camp  with  artistic 
feelings  was  even  then  speeding  down  the 
Yukon  on  the  breast  of  a  five-mile  current. 

But  the  second  half  of  the  scheme  failed  to 
connect.  No  matter  how  much  whiskey  was 
poured  down  his  neck,  O'Brien  could  not  be 
brought  to  realize  that  it  was  his  bounden  and 
friendly  duty  to  sell  his  claim.  He  hesitated, 
it  is  true,  and  trembled  now  and  again  on  the  verge 
of  giving  in.  Inside  his  muddled  head,  how 
ever,  he  was  chuckling  to  himself.  He  was  up 
to  Curly  Jim's  game,  and  liked  the  hands  that 
were  being  dealt  him.  The  whiskey  was  good. 
It  came  out  of  one  special  barrel,  and  was  about 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     171 

a  dozen  times  better  than  that  in  the  other  five 
barrels. 

Siskiyou  Pearly  was  dispensing  drinks  in  the 
bar-room  to  the  remainder  of  the  population 
of  Red  Cow,  while  O'Brien  and  Curly  had  out 
their  business  orgy  in  the  kitchen.  But  there 
was  nothing  small  about  O'Brien.  He  went 
into  the  bar-room  and  returned  with  Mucluc 
Charley  and  Percy  Leclaire. 

"Business  'sociates  of  mine,  business  'soci- 
ates,"  he  announced,  with  a  broad  wink  to 
them  and  a  guileless  grin  to  Curly.  "Always 
trust  their  judgment,  always  trust  'em.  They're 
all  right.  Give  'em  some  fire-water,  Curly, 
an5  le's  talk  it  over." 

This  was  ringing  in;  but  Curly  Jim,  making 
a  swift  revaluation  of  the  claim,  and  remember 
ing  that  the  last  pan  he  washed  had  turned  out 
seven  dollars,  decided  that  it  was  worth  the 
extra  whiskey,  even  if  it  was  selling  in  the  other 
room  at  a  dollar  a  drink. 

"I'm  not  likely  to  consider,"  O'Brien  was 
hiccoughing  to  his  two  friends  in  the  course  of 
explaining  to  them  the  question  at  issue.  "Who  ? 


172    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

Me  ?  —  sell  for  ten  thousand  dollars  !  No, 
indeed.  I'll  dig  the  gold  myself,  an'  then  I'm 
goin'  down  to  God's  country,  —  Southern  Cali 
fornia,  —  that's  the  place  for  me  to  end  my 
declinin'  days  —  an'  then  I'll  start  ...  as 
I  said  before,  then  I'll  start  .  .  .  what  did  I 
say  I  was  goin'  to  start?" 

"Ostrich  farm,"  Mucluc  Charley  volunteered. 

"  Sure,  just  what  I'm  goin'  to  start."  O'Brien 
abruptly  steadied  himself  and  looked  with  awe 
at  Mucluc  Charley.  "  How  did  you  know  ? 
Never  said  so.  Jes'  thought  I  said  so.  You're 
a  min'  reader,  Charley.  Le's  have  another." 

Curly  Jim  filled  the  glasses  and  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  four  dollars'  worth  of  whiskey 
disappear,  one  dollar's  worth  of  which  he  pun 
ished  himself — O'Brien  insisted  that  he  drink 
as  frequently  as  his  guests. 

"  Better  take  the  money  now,"  Leclaire 
argued.  "Take  you  two  years  to  dig  it  out  the 
hole,  an'  all  that  time  you  might  be  hatchin' 
teeny  little  baby  ostriches  an'  pulling  feathers 
out  the  big  ones." 

O'Brien     considered     the     proposition     and 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     173 

nodded  approval.  Curly  Jim  looked  grate 
fully  at  Leclaire  and  refilled  the  glasses. 

"Hold  on  there  !"  spluttered  Mucluc  Charley, 
whose  tongue  was  beginning  to  wag  loosely  and 
trip  over  itself.  "As  your  father  confessor  — 
there  I  go  —  as  your  brother  —  O  hell!"  He 
paused  and  collected  himself  for  another  start. 
"As  your  frien'  --  business  frien',  I  should 
say,  I  would  suggest,  rather  —  I  would  take 
the  liberty,  as  it  was,  to  mention  —  I  mean, 
suggest,  that  there  may  be  more  ostriches  .  .  . 
O  hell!"  He  downed  another  glass,  and  went 
on  more  carefully.  "What  I'm  drivin'  at  is 
.  .  .  what  am  I  drivin'  at?"  He  smote  the 
side  of  his  head  sharply  half  a  dozen  times  with 
the  heel  of  his  palm  to  shake  up  his  ideas.  "I 
got  it !"  he  cried  jubilantly.  "Supposen  there's 
slathers  more'n  ten  thousand  dollars  in  that 
hole ! " 

O'Brien,  who  apparently  was  all  ready  to  close 
the  bargain,  switched  about. 

"  Great !  "  he  cried.  "  Splen'd  idea.  Never 
thought  of  it  all  by  myself."  He  took  Mucluc 
Charley  warmly  by  the  hand.  "  Good  frien' ! 


i74    THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

Good  Vciate ! "  He  turned  belligerently  on 
Curly  Jim.  "Maybe  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  in  that  hole.  You  wouldn't  rob  your  old 
frien',  would  you,  Curly  ?  Course  you  wouldn't. 
I  know  you  .  .  .  better'n  yourself,  better'n 
yourself.  Le's  have  another.  We're  good 
frien's,  all  of  us,  I  say,  all  of  us." 

And  so  it  went,  and  so  went  the  whiskey,  and 
so  went  Curly  Jim's  hopes  up  and  down.  Now 
Leclaire  argued  in  favor  of  immediate  sale, 
and  almost  won  the  reluctant  O'Brien  over, 
only  to  lose  him  to  the  more  brilliant  counter 
argument  of  Mucluc  Charley.  And  again, 
it  was  Mucluc  Charley  who  presented  convinc 
ing  reasons  for  the  sale  and  Percy  Leclaire  who 
held  stubbornly  back.  A  little  later  it  was 
O'Brien  himself  who  insisted  on  selling,  while 
both  friends,  with  tears  and  curses,  strove  to 
dissuade  him.  The  more  whiskey  they  downed, 
the  more  fertile  of  imagination  they  became. 
For  one  sober  pro  or  con  they  found  a  score  of 
drunken  ones;  and  they  convinced  one  another 
so  readily  that  they  were  perpetually  changing 
sides  in  the  argument. 


THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     175 

The  time  came  when  both  Mucluc  Charley 
and  Leclaire  were  firmly  set  upon  the  sale,  and 
they  gleefully  obliterated  O'Brien's  objections 
as  fast  as  he  entered  them.  O'Brien  grew  des 
perate.  He  exhausted  his  last  argument  and 
sat  speechless.  He  looked  pleadingly  at  the 
friends  who  had  deserted  him.  He  kicked 
Mucluc  Charley's  shins  under  the  table,  but 
that  graceless  hero  immediately  unfolded  a  new 
and  most  logical  reason  for  the  sale.  Curly 
Jim  got  pen  and  ink  and  paper  and  wrote  out 
the  bill  of  sale.  O'Brien  sat  with  pen  poised  in 
hand. 

"Le's  have  one  more,"  he  pleaded.  "One 
more  before  I  sign  away  a  hundred  thousan' 
dollars." 

Curly  Jim  filled  the  glasses  triumphantly. 
O'Brien  downed  his  drink  and  bent  forward 
with  wobbling  pen  to  affix  his  signature.  Be 
fore  he  had  made  more  than  a  blot,  he  sud 
denly  started  up,  impelled  by  the  impact  of  an 
idea  colliding  with  his  consciousness.  He  stood 
upon  his  feet  and  swayed  back  and  forth  before 
them,  reflecting  in  his  startled  eyes  the  thought 


176     THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN 

process  that  was  taking  place  behind.  Then 
he  reached  his  conclusion.  A  benevolent  radi 
ance  suffused  his  countenance.  He  turned  to 
the  faro  dealer,  took  his  hand,  and  spoke 
solemnly. 

"Curly,  you're  my  frien'.  There's  my  han'. 
Shake.  Ol'  man,  I  won't  do  it.  Won't  sell. 
Won't  rob  a  frien'.  No  son-of-a-gun  will  ever 
have  chance  to  say  Marcus  O'Brien  robbed 
frien'  'cause  frien'  was  drunk.  You're  drunk, 
Curly,  an'  won't  rob  you.  Jes'  had  thought  — 
never  thought  it  before  —  don't  know  what 
the  matter  'ith  me,  but  never  thought  it  before. 
Suppose,  jes'  suppose,  Curly,  my  ol'  frien', 
jes'  suppose  there  ain't  ten  thousan'  in  whole 
damn  claim.  You'd  be  robbed.  No,  sir; 
won't  do  it.  Marcus  O'Brien  makes  money 
out  of  the  groun',  not  out  of  his  frien's." 

Percy  Leclaire  and  Mucluc  Charley  drowned 
the  faro  dealer's  objections  in  applause  for  so 
noble  a  sentiment.  They  fell  upon  O'Brien 
from  either  side,  their  arms  lovingly  about  his 
neck,  their  mouths  so  full  of  words  they  could 
not  hear  Curly's  offer  to  insert  a  clause  in  the 


THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN     177 

document  to  the  effect  that  if  there  weren't 
ten  thousand  in  the  claim  he  would  be  given 
back  the  difference  between  yield  and  purchase 
price.  The  longer  they  talked  the  more  maud 
lin  and  the  more  noble  the  discussion  became. 
All  sordid  motives  were  banished.  They  were 
a  trio  of  philanthropists  striving  to  save  Curly 
Jim  from  himself  and  his  own  philanthropy. 
They  insisted  that  he  was  a  philanthropist. 
They  refused  to  accept  for  a  moment  that  there 
could  be  found  one  ignoble  thought  in  all  the 
world.  They  crawled  and  climbed  and  scram 
bled  over  high  ethical  plateaus  and  ranges,  or 
drowned  themselves  in  metaphysical  seas  of 
sentimentality. 

Curly  Jim  sweated  and  fumed  and  poured  out 
the  whiskey.  He  found  himself  with  a  score  of 
arguments  on  his  hands,  not  one  of  which  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  gold-mine  he  wanted 
to  buy.  The  longer  they  talked  the  farther  away 
they  got  from  that  gold-mine,  and  at  two  in 
the  morning  Curly  Jim  acknowledged  himself 
beaten.  One  by  one  he  led  his  helpless  guests 
across  the  kitchen  floor  and  thrust  them  out- 


178     THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

side.  O'Brien  came  last,  and  the  three,  with 
arms  locked  for  mutual  aid,  titubated  gravely 
on  the  stoop. 

"Good  business  man,  Curly,"  O'Brien  was 
saying.  "  Must  say  like  your  style  —  fine  an' 
generous,  free-handed  hospital  .  .  .  hospital  .  .  . 
hospitality.  Credit  to  you.  Nothin'  base  'n 
graspin'  in  your  make-up.  As  I  was  sayin'  — " 

But  just  then  the  faro  dealer  slammed  the 
door.  The  three  laughed  happily  on  the  stoop. 
They  laughed  for  a  long  time.  Then  Mucluc 
Charley  essayed  speech. 

"Funny  —  laughed  so  hard  —  ain't  what  I 
want  to  say.  .  My  idea  is  ...  what  wash  it  ? 
Oh,  got  it !  Funny  how  ideas  slip.  Elusive 
idea  —  chasin'  elusive  idea  —  great  sport.  Ever 
chase  rabbits,  Percy,  my  frien'  ?  I  had  dog  — 
great  rabbit  dog.  Whash  'is  name  ?  Don't 
know  name  —  never  had  no  name  —  forget 
name  —  elusive  name  —  chasin'  elusive  name 
—  no,  idea  —  elusive  idea,  but  got  it  —  what  I 
want  to  say  was  —  O  hell ! " 

Thereafter  there  was  silence  for  a  long  time. 
O'Brien  slipped  from  their  arms  to  a  sitting 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     179 

posture  on  the  stoop,  where  he  slept  gently. 
Mucluc  Charley  chased  the  elusive  idea  through 
all  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  his  drowning 
consciousness.  Leclaire  hung  fascinated  upon 
the  delayed  utterance.  Suddenly  the  other's 
hand  smote  him  on  the  back. 

"Got  it!"  Mucluc  Charley  cried  in  sten 
torian  tones. 

The  shock  of  the  jolt  broke  the  continuity  of 
Leclaire's  mental  process. 

"How  much  to  the  pan  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Pan  nothin' !"  Mucluc  Charley  was  angry. 
"Idea  —  got  it  —  got  leg-hold  —  ran  it  down." 

Leclaire's  face  took  on  a  rapt,  admiring  ex 
pression,  and  again  he  hung  upon  the  other's 
lips. 

".  .  .  O    hell!"   said  Mucluc  Charley. 

At  this  moment  the  kitchen  door  opened  for 
an  instant,  and  Curly  Jim  shouted,  "Go 
home!" 

"Funny,"  said  Mucluc  Charley.  "Shame 
idea  —  very  shame  as  mine.  Le's  go  home." 

They  gathered  O'Brien  up  between  them 
and  started.  Mucluc  Charley  began  aloud  the 


180    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

pursuit  of  another  idea.  Leclaire  followed  the 
pursuit  with  enthusiasm.  But  O'Brien  did  not 
follow  it.  He  neither  heard,  nor  saw,  nor 
knew  anything.  He  was  a  mere  wobbling 
automaton,  supported  affectionately  and  pre 
cariously  by  his  two  business  associates. 

They  took  the  path  down  by  the  bank  of  the 
Yukon.  Home  did  not  lie  that  way,  but  the 
elusive  idea  did.  Mucluc  Charley  giggled  over 
the  idea  that  he  could  not  catch  for  the  edifica 
tion  of  Leclaire.  They  came  to  where  Siskiyou 
Pearly's  boat  lay  moored  to  the  bank.  The 
rope  with  which  it  was  tied  ran  across  the  path 
to  a  pine  stump.  They  tripped  over  it  and 
went  down,  O'Brien  underneath.  A  faint  flash 
of  consciousness  lighted  his  brain.  He  felt  the 
impact  of  bodies  upon  his  and  struck  out  madly 
for  a  moment  with  his  fists.  Then  he  went  to 
sleep  again.  His  gentle  snore  arose  on  the  air, 
and  Mucluc  Charley  began  to  giggle. 

"New  idea/'  he  volunteered,  "brand  new 
idea.  Jes'  caught  it  —  no  trouble  at  all.  Carrie 
right  up  an'  I  patted  it  on  the  head.  It's 
mine.  *  Brien's  drunk  —  beashly  drunk.  Shame 


THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS    O'BRIEN     181 

—  damn  shame  —  learn'm  lesshon.  Thash 
Pearly's  boat.  Put  'Brien  in  Pearly's  boat. 
Casht  off — let  her  go  down  Yukon.  'Brien 
wake  up  in  mornin'.  Current  too  strong  — 
can't  row  boat  'gainst  current  —  mush  walk 
back.  Come  back  madder  'n  hatter.  You  an' 
me  headin'  for  tall  timber.  Learn  'm  lesshon 
jes'  shame,  learn  'm  lesshon." 

Siskiyou  Pearly's  boat  was  empty,  save  for  a 
pair  of  oars.  Its  gunwale  rubbed  against  the 
bank  alongside  of  O'Brien.  They  rolled  him 
over  into  it.  Mucluc  Charley  cast  off  the 
painter,  and  Leclaire  shoved  the  boat  out  into 
the  current.  Then,  exhausted  by  their  labors, 
they  lay  down  on  the  bank  and  slept. 

Next  morning  all  Red  Cow  knew  of  the  joke 
that  had  been  played  on  Marcus  O'Brien. 
There  were  some  tall  bets  as  to  what  would 
happen  to  the  two  perpetrators  when  the  vic 
tim  arrived  back.  In  the  afternoon  a  lookout 
was  set,  so  that  they  would  know  when  he  was 
sighted.  Everybody  wanted  to  see  him  come 
in.  But  he  didn't  come,  though  they  sat  up 
till  midnight.  Nor  did  he  come  next  day,  nor 


182     THE    PASSING   OF    MARCUS    O'BRIEN 

the  next.  Red  Cow  never  saw  Marcus  O'Brien 
again,  and  though  many  conjectures  were  en 
tertained,  no  certain  clew  was  ever  gained  to 

dispel  the  mystery  of  his  passing. 
****** 

Only  Marcus  O'Brien  knew,  and  he  never 
came  back  to  tell.  He  awoke  next  morning  in 
torment.  His  stomach  had  been  calcined  by  the 
inordinate  quantity  of  whiskey  he  had  drunk, 
and  was  a  dry  and  raging  furnace.  His  head 
ached  all  over,  inside  and  out;  and,  worse  than 
that,  was  the  pain  in  his  face.  For  six  hours 
countless  thousands  of  mosquitoes  had  fed  upon 
him,  and  their  ungrateful  poison  had  swollen 
his  face  tremendously.  It  was  only  by  a  severe 
exertion  of  will  that  he  was  able  to  open  narrow 
slits  in  his  face  through  which  he  could  peer. 
He  happened  to  move  his  hands,  and  they  hurt. 
He  squinted  at  them,  but  failed  to  recognize 
them,  so  puffed  were  they  by  the  mosquito 
virus.  He  was  lost,  or  rather,  his  identity  was 
lost  to  him.  There  was  nothing  familiar  about 
him,  which,  by  association  of  ideas,  would  cause 
to  rise  in  his  consciousness  the  continuity  of  his 


THE    PASSING   OF    MARCUS   O'BRIEN     183 

existence.  He  was  divorced  utterly  from  his 
past,  for  there  was  nothing  about  him  to  resur 
rect  in  his  consciousness  a  memory  of  that  past. 
Besides,  he  was  so  sick  and  miserable  that  he 
lacked  energy  and  inclination  to  seek  after  who 
and  what  he  was. 

It  was  not  until  he  discovered  a  crook  in  a  little 
finger,  caused  by  an  unset  breakage  of  years 
before,  that  he  knew  himself  to  be  Marcus 
O'Brien.  On  the  instant  his  past  rushed  into 
his  consciousness.  When  he  discovered  a  blood- 
blister  under  a  thumb-nail,  which  he  had  re 
ceived  the  previous  week,  his  self-identification 
became  doubly  sure,  and  he  knew  that  those 
unfamiliar  hands  belonged  to  Marcus  O'Brien, 
or,  just  as  much  to  the  point,  that  Marcus 
O'Brien  belonged  to  the  hands.  His  first 
thought  was  that  he  was  ill  —  that  he  had  had 
river  fever.  It  hurt  him  so  much  to  open  his 
eyes  that  he  kept  them  closed.  A  small  float 
ing  branch  struck  the  boat  a  sharp  rap.  He 
thought  it  was  some  one  knocking  on  the  cabin 
door,  and  said,  "Come  in."  He  waited  for  a 
while,  and  then  said  testily,  "Stay  out,  then, 


1 84    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

damn  you."  But  just  the  same  he  wished  they 
would  come  in  and  tell  him  about  his  illness. 

But  as  he  lay  there,  the  past  night  began  to 
reconstruct  itself  in  his  brain.  He  hadn't  been 
sick  at  all,  was  his  thought;  he  had  merely 
been  drunk,  and  it  was  time  for  him  to  get  up  and 
go  to  work.  Work  suggested  his  mine,  and  he 
remembered  that  he  had  refused  ten  thousand 
dollars  for  it.  He  sat  up  abruptly  and  squeezed 
open  his  eyes.  He  saw  himself  in  a  boat, 
floating  on  the  swollen  brown  flood  of  the 
Yukon.  The  spruce-covered  shores  and  isl 
ands  were  unfamiliar.  He  was  stunned  for  a 
time.  He  couldn't  make  it  out.  He  could 
remember  the  last  night's  orgy,  but  there  was  no 
connection  between  that  and  his  present  situa 
tion. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  held  his  aching  head 
in  his  hands.  What  had  happened  ?  Slowly 
the  dreadful  thought  arose  in  his  mind.  He 
fought  against  it,  strove  to  drive  it  away,  but  it 
persisted :  he  had  killed  somebody.  That  alone 
could  explain  why  he  was  in  an  open  boat 
drifting  down  the  Yukon.  The  law  of  Red  Cow 


THE    PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN     185 

that  he  had  so  long  administered  had  now  been 
administered  to  him.  He  had  killed  some  one 
and  been  set  adrift.  But  whom  ?  He  racked 
his  aching  brain  for  the  answer,  but  all  that 
came  was  a  vague  memory  of  bodies  falling 
upon  him  and  of  striking  out  at  them.  Who 
were  they  ?  Maybe  he  had  killed  more  than 
one.  He  reached  to  his  belt.  The  knife  was 
missing  from  its  sheath.  He  had  done  it  with 
that  undoubtedly.  But  there  must  have  been 
some  reason  for  the  killing.  He  opened  his 
eyes  and  in  a  panic  began  to  search  about  the 
boat.  There  was  no  grub,  not  an  ounce  of 
grub.  He  sat  down  with  a  groan.  He  had 
killed  without  provocation.  The  extreme  rigor 
of  the  law  had  been  visited  upon  him. 

For  half  an  hour  he  remained  motionless, 
holding  his  aching  head  and  trying  to  think. 
Then  he  cooled  his  stomach  with  a  drink  of 
water  from  overside  and  felt  better.  He  stood 
up,  and  alone  on  the  wide-stretching  Yukon, 
with  naught  but  the  primeval  wilderness  to 
hear,  he  cursed  strong  drink.  After  that  he 
tied  up  to  a  huge  floating  pine  that  was  deeper 


i86     THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

sunk  in  the  current  than  the  boat  and  that 
consequently  drifted  faster.  He  washed  his 
face  and  hands,  sat  down  in  the  stern-sheets, 
and  did  some  more  thinking.  It  was  late 
in  June.  It  was  two  thousand  miles  to  Ber 
ing  Sea.  The  boat  was  averaging  five  miles  an 
hour.  There  was  no  darkness  in  such  high 
latitudes  at  that  time  of  the  year,  and  he  could 
run  the  river  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four. 
This  would  mean,  daily,  a  hundred  and  twenty 
miles.  Strike  out  the  twenty  for  accidents, 
and  there  remained  a  hundred  miles  a  day. 
In  twenty  days  he  would  reach  Bering  Sea. 
And  this  would  involve  no  expenditure  of  energy ; 
the  river  did  the  work.  He  could  lie  down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  husband  his  strength. 
For  two  days  he  ate  nothing.  Then,  drifting 
into  the  Yukon  Flats,  he  went  ashore  on  the 
low-lying  islands  and  gathered  the  eggs  of  wild 
geese  and  ducks.  He  had  no  matches,  and 
ate  the  eggs  raw.  They  were  strong,  but  they 
kept  him  going.  When  he  crossed  the  Arctic 
Circle,  he  found  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's 
post.  The  brigade  had  not  yet  arrived  from 


THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN     187 

the  Mackenzie,  and  the  post  was  completely 
out  of  grub.  He  was  offered  wild-duck  eggs, 
but  he  informed  them  that  he  had  a  bushel  of  the 
same  on  the  boat.  He  was  also  offered  a  drink 
of  whiskey,  which  he  refused  with  an  exhibition 
of  violent  repugnance.  He  got  matches,  how 
ever,  and  after  that  he  cooked  his  eggs.  Tow 
ard  the  mouth  of  the  river  head-winds  delayed 
him,  and  he  was  twenty-four  days  on  the  egg 
diet.  Unfortunately,  while  asleep,  he  had 
drifted  by  both  the  missions  of  St.  Paul  and 
Holy  Cross.  And  he  could  sincerely  say,  as  he 
afterward  did,  that  talk  about  missions  on  the 
Yukon  was  all  humbug.  There  weren't  any 
missions,  and  he  was  the  man  to  know. 

Once  on  Bering  Sea  he  exchanged  the  egg 
diet  for  seal  diet,  and  he  never  could  make  up 
his  mind  which  he  liked  least.  In  the  fall  of 
the  year  he  was  rescued  by  a  United  States 
revenue  cutter,  and  the  following  winter  he 
made  quite  a  hit  in  San  Francisco  as  a  temper 
ance  lecturer.  In  this  field  he  found  his  voca 
tion.  "Avoid  the  bottle"  is  his  slogan  and 
battle-cry.  He  manages  subtly  to  convey  the 


i88    THE   PASSING   OF   MARCUS   O'BRIEN 

impression  that  in  his  own  life  a  great  disaster 
was  wrought  by  the  bottle.  He  has  even 
mentioned  the  loss  of  a  fortune  that  was  caused 
by  that  hell-bait  of  the  devil,  but  behind  that 
incident  his  listeners  feel  the  loom  of  some  ter 
rible  and  unguessed  evil  for  which  the  bottle 
is  responsible.  He  has  made  a  success  in  his 
vocation,  and  has  grown  gray  and  respected  in 
the  crusade  against  strong  drink.  But  on  the 
Yukon  the  passing  of  Marcus  O'Brien  remains 
tradition.  It  is  a  mystery  that  ranks  at  par  with 
the  disappearance  of  Sir  John  Franklin. 


THE  WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 


THE  WIT  OF  PORPORTUK 

EL-SOO  had  been  a  Mission  girl.     Her 
mother  had   died  when   she  was  very 
small,  and  Sister  Alberta  had  plucked 
El-Soo  as  a  brand  from  the  burning,  one  summer 
day,  and  carried  her  away  to  Holy  Cross  Mission 
and  dedicated  her  to  God.     El-Soo  was  a  full- 
blooded  Indian,  yet  she  exceeded  all  the  half- 
breed  and  quarter-breed  girls.     Never  had  the 
good  sisters  dealt  with  a  girl  so  adaptable  and  at 
the  same  time  so  spirited. 

El-Soo  was  quick,  and  deft,  and  intelligent; 
but  above  all  she  was  fire,  the  living  flame  of 
life,  a  blaze  of  personality  that  was  compounded 
of  will,  sweetness,  and  daring.  Her  father  was 
a  chief,  and  his  blood  ran  in  her  veins.  Obedi 
ence,  on  the  part  of  El-Soo,  was  a  matter  of 
terms  and  arrangement.  She  had  a  passion  for 
equity,  and  perhaps  it  was  because  of  this  that 
she  excelled  in  mathematics. 
191 


i92         THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

But  she  excelled  in  other  things.  She  learned 
to  read  and  write  English  as  no  girl  had  ever 
learned  in  the  Mission.  She  led  the  girls  in 
singing,  and  into  song  she  carried  her  sense  of 
equity.  She  was  an  artist,  and  the  fire  of  her 
flowed  toward  creation.  Had  she  from  birth 
enjoyed  a  more  favorable  environment,  she 
would  have  made  literature  or  music. 

Instead,  she  was  El-Soo,  daughter  of  Klakee- 
Nah,  a  chief,  and  she  lived  in  the  Holy  Cross 
Mission  where  were  no  artists,  but  only  pure- 
souled  Sisters  who  were  interested  in  cleanliness 
and  righteousness  and  the  welfare  of  the  spirit  in 
the  land  of  immortality  that  lay  beyond  the  skies. 

The  years  passed.  She  was  eight  years  old 
when  she  entered  the  Mission;  she  was  six 
teen,  and  the  Sisters  were  corresponding  with 
their  superiors  in  the  Order  concerning  the 
sending  of  El-Soo  to  the  United  States  to  com 
plete  her  education,  when  a  man  of  her  own 
tribe  arrived  at  Holy  Cross  and  had  talk  with 
her.  El-Soo  was  somewhat  appalled  by  him. 
He  was  dirty.  He  was  a  Caliban-like  creature, 
primitively  ugly,  with  a  mop  of  hair  that  had 


THE    WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          193 

never  been  combed.  He  looked  at  her  disap 
provingly  and  refused  to  sit  down. 

"Thy  brother  is  dead,"  he  said,  shortly. 

El-Soo  was  not  particularly  shocked.  She 
remembered  little  of  her  brother.  "Thy  father 
is  an  old  man,  and  alone,"  the  messenger  went 
on.  "His  house  is  large  and  empty,  and  he 
would  hear  thy  voice  and  look  upon  thee." 

Him  she  remembered  —  Klakee-Nah,  the 
head-man  of  the  village,  the  friend  of  the  mis 
sionaries  and  the  traders,  a  large  man  thewed 
like  a  giant,  with  kindly  eyes  and  masterful 
ways,  and  striding  with  a  consciousness  of 
crude  royalty  in  his  carriage. 

"Tell  him  that  I  will  come,"  was  El-Soo's 
answer. 

Much  to  the  despair  of  the  Sisters,  the  brand 
plucked  from  the  burning  went  back  to  the 
burning.  All  pleading  with  El-Soo  was  vain. 
There  was  much  argument,  expostulation,  and 
weeping.  Sister  Alberta  even  revealed  to  her  the 
project  of  sending  her  to  the  United  States.  El- 
Soo  stared  wide-eyed  into  the  golden  vista  thus 
opened  up  to  her,  and  shook  her  head.  In  her 


i94          THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

eyes  persisted  another  vista.  It  was  the  mighty 
curve  of  the  Yukon  at  Tana-naw  Station,  with 
the  St.  George  Mission  on  one  side,  and  the 
trading  post  on  the  other,  and  midway  between 
the  Indian  village  and  a  certain  large  log  house 
where  lived  an  old  man  tended  upon  by  slaves. 

All  dwellers  on  the  Yukon  bank  for  twice 
a  thousand  miles  knew  the  large  log  house,  the 
old  man  and  the  tending  slaves;  and  well  did 
the  Sisters  know  the  house,  its  unending  revelry, 
its  feasting  and  its  fun.  So  there  was  weeping 
at  Holy  Cross  when  El-Soo  departed. 

There  was  a  great  cleaning  up  in  the  large 
house  when  El-Soo  arrived.  Klakee-Nah,  him 
self  masterful,  protested  at  this  masterful  conduct 
of  his  young  daughter;  but  in  the  end,  dream 
ing  barbarically  of  magnificence,  he  went  forth 
and  borrowed  a  thousand  dollars  from  old  Por- 
portuk,  than  whom  there  was  no  richer  Indian 
on  the  Yukon.  Also,  Klakee-Nah  ran  up  a 
heavy  bill  at  the  trading  post.  El-Soo  re-created 
the  large  house.  She  invested  it  with  new 
splendor,  while  Klakee-Nah  maintained  its 
ancient  traditions  of  hospitality  and  revelry. 


THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK          195 

All  this  was  unusual  for  a  Yukon  Indian, 
but  Klakee-Nah  was  an  unusual  Indian.  Not 
alone  did  he  like  to  render  inordinate  hospitality, 
but,  what  of  being  a  chief  and  of  acquiring  much 
money,  he  was  able  to  do  it.  In  the  primitive 
trading  days  he  had  been  a  power  over  his  people, 
and  he  had  dealt  profitably  with  the  white  trad 
ing  companies.  Later  on,  with  Porportuk,  he 
had  made  a  gold-strike  on  the  Koyokuk  River. 
Klakee-Nah  was  by  training  and  nature  an 
aristocrat.  Porportuk  was  bourgeois,  and  Por 
portuk  bought  him  out  of  the  gold-mine.  Por 
portuk  was  content  to  plod  and  accumulate. 
Klakee-Nah  went  back  to  his  large  house  and 
proceeded  to  spend.  Porportuk  was  known 
as  the  richest  Indian  in  Alaska.  Klakee-Nah 
was  known  as  the  whitest.  Porportuk  was  a 
money-lender  and  a  usurer.  Klakee-Nah  was 
an  anachronism  —  a  mediaeval  ruin,  a  fighter 
and  a  feaster,  happy  with  wine  and  song. 

El-Soo  adapted  herself  to  the  large  house  and 
its  ways  as  readily  as  she  had  adapted  herself  to 
Holy  Cross  Mission  and  its  ways.  She  did  not 
try  to  reform  her  father  and  direct  his  foot- 


196         THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

steps  toward  God.  It  is  true,  she  reproved  him 
when  he  drank  overmuch  and  profoundly,  but 
that  was  for  the  sake  of  his  health  and  the  direc 
tion  of  his  footsteps  on  solid  earth. 

The  latchstring  to  the  large  house  was  always 
out.  What  with  the  coming  and  the  going,  it 
was  never  still.  The  rafters  of  the  great  living- 
room  shook  with  the  roar  of  wassail  and  of  song. 
At  table  sat  men  from  all  the  world  and  chiefs 
from  distant  tribes  —  Englishmen  and  Colo 
nials,  lean  Yankee  traders  and  rotund  offi 
cials  of  the  great  companies,  cowboys  from  the 
Western  ranges,  sailors  from  the  sea,  hunters 
and  dog-mushers  of  a  score  of  nationalities. 

El-Soo  drew  breath  in  a  cosmopolitan  at 
mosphere.  She  could  speak  English  as  well 
as  she  could  her  native  tongue,  and  she  sang 
English  songs  and  ballads.  The  passing  Indian 
ceremonials  she  knew,  and  the  perishing  tra 
ditions.  The  tribal  dress  of  the  daughter  of  a 
chief  she  knew  how  to  wear  upon  occasion. 
But  for  the  most  part  she  dressed  as  white 
women  dress.  Not  for  nothing  was  her  needle 
work  at  the  Mission  and  her  innate  artistry. 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          197 

She  carried  her  clothes  like  a  white  woman, 
and  she  made  clothes  that  could  be  so  carried. 

In  her  way  she  was  as  unusual  as  her  father, 
and  the  position  she  occupied  was  as  unique 
as  his.  She  was  the  one  Indian  woman  who 
was  the  social  equal  with  the  several  white 
women  at  Tana-naw  Station.  She  was  the  one 
Indian  woman  to  whom  white  men  honorably 
made  proposals  of  marriage.  And  she  was  the 
one  Indian  woman  whom  no  white  man  ever 
insulted. 

For  El-Soo  was  beautiful  —  not  as  white 
women  are  beautiful,  not  as  Indian  women  are 
beautiful.  It  was  the  flame  of  her,  that  did 
not  depend  upon  feature,  that  was  her  beauty. 
So  far  as  mere  line  and  feature  went,  she  was  the 
classic  Indian  type.  The  black  hair  and  the 
fine  bronze  were  hers,  and  the  black  eyes,  brill 
iant  and  bold,  keen  as  sword-light,  proud ;  and 
hers  the  delicate  eagle  nose  with  the  thin,  quiver 
ing  nostrils,  the  high  cheek-bones  that  were  not 
broad  apart,  and  the  thin  lips  that  were  not  too 
thin.  But  over  all  and  through  all  poured  the 
flame  of  her — the  unanalyzable  something  that 


198          THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

was  fire  and  that  was  the  soul  of  her,  that 
lay  mellow-warm  or  blazed  in  her  eyes,  that 
sprayed  the  cheeks  of  her,  that  distended  the 
nostrils,  that  curled  the  lip,  or,  when  the 
lip  was  in  repose,  that  was  still  there  in  the  lip, 
the  lip  palpitant  with  its  presence. 

And  El-Soo  had  wit  —  rarely  sharp  to  hurt, 
yet  quick  to  search  out  forgivable  weakness. 
The  laughter  of  her  mind  played  like  lambent 
flame  over  all  about  her,  and  from  all  about  her 
arose  answering  laughter.  Yet  she  was  never 
the  centre  of  things.  This  she  would  not  per 
mit.  The  large  house,  and  all  of  which  it  was 
significant,  was  her  father's;  and  through  it, 
to  the  last,  moved  his  heroic  figure  —  host, 
master  of  the  revels,  and  giver  of  the  law.  It 
is  true,  as  the  strength  oozed  from  him,  that  she 
caught  up  responsibilities  from  his  failing  hands. 
But  in  appearance  he  still  ruled,  dozing  oft- 
times  at  the  board,  a  bacchanalian  ruin,  yet  in 
all  seeming  the  ruler  of  the  feast. 

And  through  the  large  house  moved  the  figure 
of  Porportuk,  ominous,  with  shaking  head, 
coldly  disapproving,  paying  for  it  all.  Not  that 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          199 

he  really  paid,  for  he  compounded  interest  in 
weird  ways,  and  year  by  year  absorbed  the 
properties  of  Klakee-Nah.  Porportuk  once 
took  it  upon  himself  to  chide  El-Soo  upon  the 
wasteful  way  of  life  in  the  large  house  —  it 
was  when  he  had  about  absorbed  the  last  of 
Klakee-Nah's  wealth  —  but  he  never  ventured 
so  to  chide  again.  El-Soo,  like  her  father, 
was  an  aristocrat,  as  disdainful  of  money  as  he, 
and  with  an  equal  sense  of  honor  as  finely  strung. 
Porportuk  continued  grudgingly  to  advance 
money,  and  ever  the  money  flowed  in  golden 
foam  away.  Upon  one  thing  El-Soo  was  re 
solved  —  her  father  should  die  as  he  had  lived. 
There  should  be  for  him  no  passing  from  high 
to  low,  no  diminution  of  the  revels,  no  lessen 
ing  of  the  lavish  hospitality.  When  there  was 
famine,  as  of  old,  the  Indians  came  groaning  to 
the  large  house  and  went  away  content.  When 
there  was  famine  and  no  money,  money  was 
borrowed  from  Porportuk,  and  the  Indians  still 
went  away  content.  El-Soo  might  well  have 
repeated,  after  the  aristocrats  of  another  time 
and  place,  that  after  her  came  the  deluge.  In 


200         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

her  case  the  deluge  was  old  Porportuk.  With 
every  advance  of  money,  he  looked  upon  her 
with  a  more  possessive  eye,  and  felt  bourgeon 
ing  within  him  ancient  fires. 

But  El-Soo  had  no  eyes  for  him.  Nor  had 
she  eyes  for  the  white  men  who  wanted  to 
marry  her  at  the  Mission  with  ring  and  priest 
and  book.  For  at  Tana-naw  Station  was  a 
young  man,  Akoon,  of  her  own  blood,  and 
tribe,  and  village.  He  was  strong  and  beautiful 
to  her  eyes,  a  great  hunter,  and,  in  that  he  had 
wandered  far  and  much,  very  poor;  he  had  been 
to  all  the  unknown  wastes  and  places;  he  had 
journeyed  to  Sitka  and  to  the  United  States; 
he  had  crossed  the  continent  to  Hudson  Bay 
and  back  again,  and  as  seal-hunter  on  a  ship 
he  had  sailed  to  Siberia  and  for  Japan. 

When  he  returned  from  the  gold-strike  in 
Klondike  he  came,  as  was  his  wont,  to  the  large 
house  to  make  report  to  old  Klakee-Nah  of  all 
the  world  that  he  had  seen;  and  there  he  first 
saw  El-Soo,  three  years  back  from  the  Mission. 
Thereat,  Akoon  wandered  no  more.  He  re 
fused  a  wage  of  twenty  dollars  a  day  as  pilot 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          201 

on  the  big  steamboats.  He  hunted  some  and 
fished  some,  but  never  far  from  Tana-naw 
Station,  and  he  was  at  the  large  house  often 
and  long.  And  El-Soo  measured  him  against 
many  men  and  found  him  good.  He  sang 
songs  to  her,  and  was  ardent  and  glowed  until 
all  Tana-naw  Station  knew  he  loved  her.  And 
Porportuk  but  grinned  and  advanced  more 
money  for  the  upkeep  of  the  large  house. 

Then  came  the  death  table  of  Klakee-Nah. 
He  sat  at  feast,  with  death  in  his  throat,  that 
he  could  not  drown  with  wine.  And  laughter 
and  joke  and  song  went  around,  and  Akoon 
told  a  story  that  made  the  rafters  echo.  There 
were  no  tears  or  sighs  at  that  table.  It  was  no 
more  than  fit  that  Klakee-Nah  should  die  as  he 
had  lived,  and  none  knew  this  better  than 
El-Soo,  with  her  artist  sympathy.  The  old 
roystering  crowd  was  there,  and,  as  of  old, 
three  frost-bitten  sailors  were  there,  fresh  from 
the  long  traverse  from  the  Arctic,  survivors  of 
a  ship's  company  of  seventy-four.  At  Klakee- 
Nah's  back  were  four  old  men,  all  that  were 
left  him  of  the  slaves  of  his  youth.  With 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 


203 


"I  will  not  deny  that  the  drink  is  good  to  this 
old  throat  of  mine,"  Porportuk  made  answer, 
and  hesitated  for  the  speech  to  complete  the 
thought. 

"  But  it  costs  overmuch,"  Klakee-Nah  roared, 
completing  it  for  him. 

Porportuk  winced  at  the  laughter  that  went 
down  the  table.  His  eyes  burned  malevolently. 
"We  were  boys  together,  of  the  same  age,"  he 
said.  "In  your  throat  is  death.  I  am  still 
alive  and  strong." 

An  ominous  murmur  arose  from  the  com 
pany.  Klakee-Nah  coughed  and  strangled,  and 
the  old  slaves  smote  him  between  the  shoul 
ders.  He  emerged  gasping,  and  waved  his 
hand  to  still  the  threatening  rumble. 

"You  have  grudged  the  very  fire  in  your 
house  because  the  wood  cost  overmuch!"  he 
cried.  "You  have  grudged  life.  To  live  cost 
overmuch,  and  you  have  refused  to  pay  the 
price.  Your  life  has  been  like  a  cabin  where 
the  fire  is  out  and  there  are  no  blankets  on  the 
floor."  He  signalled  to  a  slave  to  fill  his  glass, 
which  he  held  aloft.  'But  I  have  lived.  And 


204         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

I  have  been  warm  with  life  as  you  have  never 
been  warm.  It  is  true,  you  shall  live  long. 
But  the  longest  nights  are  the  cold  nights  when 
a  man  shivers  and  lies  awake.  My  nights  have 
been  short,  but  I  have  slept  warm/' 

He  drained  the  glass.  The  shaking  hand 
of  a  slave  failed  to  catch  it  as  it  crashed  to  the 
floor.  Klakee-Nah  sank  back,  panting,  watch 
ing  the  upturned  glasses  at  the  lips  of  the 
drinkers,  his  own  lips  slightly  smiling  to  the 
applause.  At  a  sign,  two  slaves  attempted  to 
help  him  sit  upright  again.  But  they  were 
weak,  his  frame  was  mighty,  and  the  four  old 
men  tottered  and  shook  as  they  helped  him 
forward. 

"  But  manner  of  life  is  neither  here  nor  there," 
he  went  on.  "We  have  other  business,  Por- 
portuk,  you  and  I,  to-night.  Debts  are  mis 
chances,  and  I  am  in  mischance  with  you. 
What  of  my  debt,  and  how  great  is  it?" 

Porportuk  searched  in  his  pouch  and  brought 
forth  a  memorandum.  He  sipped  at  his  glass 
and  began.  "There  is  the  note  of  August, 
1889,  for  three  hundred  dollars.  The  interest 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          205 

has  never  been  paid.  And  the  note  of  the  next 
year  for  five  hundred  dollars.  This  note  was 
included  in  the  note  of  two  months  later  for  a 
thousand  dollars.  Then  there  is  the  note  - 

"Never  mind  the  many  notes ! "  Klakee- 
Nah  cried  out  impatiently.  "They  make  my 
head  go  around  and  all  the  things  inside  my 
head.  The  whole !  The  round  whole !  How 
much  is  it?" 

Porportuk  referred  to  his  memorandum. 
"Fifteen  thousand  nine  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,"  he  read 
with  careful  precision. 

"Make  it  sixteen  thousand,  make  it  sixteen 
thousand,"  Klakee-Nah  said  grandly.  "Odd 
numbers  were  ever  a  worry.  And  now  —  and 
it  is  for  this  that  I  have  sent  for  you  —  make 
me  out  a  new  note  for  sixteen  thousand,  which 
I  shall  sign.  I  have  no  thought  of  the  interest. 
Make  it  as  large  as  you  will,  and  make  it 
payable  in  the  next  world,  when  I  shall  meet 
you  by  the  fire  of  the  Great  Father  of  all  Ind 
ians.  Then  the  note  will  be  paid.  This 
I  promise  you.  It  is  the  word  of  Klakee-Nah." 


206         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

Porportuk  looked  perplexed,  and  loudly  the 
laughter  arose  and  shook  the  room.  Klakee- 
Nah  raised  his  hands.  "Nay,"  he  cried.  "It 
is  not  a  joke.  I  but  speak  in  fairness.  It  was 
for  this  I  sent  for  you,  Porportuk.  Make  out 
the  note." 

"I  have  no  dealings  with  the  next  world," 
Porportuk  made  answer  slowly. 

"Have  you  no  thought  to  meet  me  before 
the  Great  Father!"  Klakee-Nah  demanded. 
Then  he  added,  "I  shall  surely  be  there." 

"I  have  no  dealings  with  the  next  world," 
Porportuk  repeated  sourly. 

The  dying  man  regarded  him  with  frank 
amazement. 

"I  know  naught  of  the  next  world,"  Por 
portuk  explained.  "I  do  business  in  this 
world." 

Klakee-Nah's  face  cleared.  "This  comes 
of  sleeping  cold  of  nights,"  he  laughed.  He 
pondered  for  a  space,  then  said,  "It  is  in  this 
world  that  you  must  be  paid.  There  remains 
to  me  this  house.  Take  it,  and  burn  the  debt 
in  the  candle  there." 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK          207 

"It  is  an  old  house  and  not  worth  the  money," 
Porportuk  made  answer. 

"There  are  my  mines  on  the  Twisted  Sal 


mon." 


"They  have  never  paid  to  work,"  was  the 
reply. 

"There  is  my  share  in  the  steamer  Koyo- 
kuk.  I  am  half  owner." 

"She  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  Yukon." 

Klakee-Nah  started.  "True,  I  forgot.  It 
was  last  spring  when  the  ice  went  out."  He 
mused  for  a  time,  while  the  glasses  remained 
untasted,  and  all  the  company  waited  upon 
his  utterance. 

"Then  it  would  seem  I  owe  you  a  sum  of 
money  which  I  cannot  pay  ...  in  this  world  ?" 
Porportuk  nodded  and  glanced  down  the  table. 

"Then  it  would  seem  that  you,  Porportuk, 
are  a  poor  business  man,"  Klakee-Nah  said 
slyly.  And  boldly  Porportuk  made  answer, 
"No;  there  is  security  yet  untouched." 

"What!"  cried  Klakee-Nah.  "Have  I  still 
property  ?  Name  it,  and  it  is  yours,  and  the 
debt  is  no  more." 


ao8          THE    WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

"There  it  is."     Porportuk  pointed  at  El-Soo. 

Klakee-Nah  could  not  understand.  He  peered 
down  the  table,  brushed  his  eyes,  and  peered 
again. 

"Your  daughter,  El-Soo  —  her  will  I  take 
and  the  debt  be  no  more.  I  will  burn  the  debt 
there  in  the  candle." 

Klakee-Nah's  great  chest  began  to  heave. 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  —  a  joke  —  Ho  !  ho !  ho  ! "  he  laughed 
Homerically.  "And  with  your  cold  bed  and 
daughters  old  enough  to  be  the  mother  of 
El-Soo!  Ho!  ho!  ho!"  He  began  to  cough 
and  strangle,  and  the  old  slaves  smote 
him  on  the  back.  "Ho  !  ho  !"  he  began  again, 
and  went  off  into  another  paroxysm. 

Porportuk  waited  patiently,  sipping  from 
his  glass  and  studying  the  double  row  of  faces 
down  the  board.  "It  is  no  joke,"  he  said 
finally.  "My  speech  is  well  meant." 

Klakee-Nah  sobered  and  looked  at  him, 
then  reached  for  his  glass,  but  could  not  touch  it. 
A  slave  passed  it  to  him,  and  glass  and  liquor  he 
flung  into  the  face  of  Porportuk. 

"Turn   him   out!"     Klakee-Nah   thundered 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         209 

to  the  waiting  table  that  strained  like  a  pack 
of  hounds    in   leash.     "And    roll    him    in   the 


snow  1 " 


As  the  mad  riot  swept  past  him  and  out  of 
doors,  he  signalled  to  the  slaves,  and  the  four 
tottering  old  men  supported  him  on  his  feet  as 
he  met  the  returning  revellers,  upright,  glass  in 
hand,  pledging  them  a  toast  to  the  short  night 
when  a  man  sleeps  warm. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  settle  the  estate  of  Kla- 
kee-Nah.  Tommy,  the  little  Englishman,  clerk 
at  the  trading  post,  was  called  in  by  El-Soo  to 
help.  There  was  nothing  but  debts,  notes 
overdue,  mortgaged  properties,  and  properties 
mortgaged  but  worthless.  Notes  and  mort 
gages  were  held  by  Porportuk.  Tommy  called 
him  a  robber  many  times  as  he  pondered  the 
compounding  of  the  interest. 

"Is  it  a  debt,  Tommy?"    El-Soo  asked. 

"It  is  a  robbery,"  Tommy  answered. 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  a  debt,"   she  persisted. 

The  winter  wore  away,  and  the  early  spring, 
and  still  the  claims  of  Porportuk  remained 
unpaid.  He  saw  El-Soo  often  and  explained 


2io         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

to  her  at  length,  as  he  had  explained  to  her 
father,  the  way  the  debt  could  be  cancelled. 
Also,  he  brought  with  him  old  medicine-men, 
who  elaborated  to  her  the  everlasting  damna 
tion  of  her  father  if  the  debt  were  not  paid. 
One  day,  after  such  an  elaboration,  El-Soo 
made  final  announcement  to  Porportuk. 

"I  shall  tell  you  two  things,"  she  said. 
"First,  I  shall  not  be  your  wife.  Will  you 
remember  that  ?  Second,  you  shall  be  paid 
the  last  cent  of  the  sixteen  thousand  dollars  — " 

"Fifteen  thousand  nine  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,"  Por 
portuk  corrected. 

"My  father  said  sixteen  thousand,"  was  her 
reply.  "You  shall  be  paid." 

"How?" 

"I  know  not  how,  but  I  shall  find  out  how. 
Now  go,  and  bother  me  no  more.  If  you  do" 
—  she  hesitated  to  find  fitting  penalty  —  "if 
you  do,  I  shall  have  you  rolled  in  the  snow 
again  as  soon  as  the  first  snow  flies." 

This  was  still  in  the  early  spring,  and  a  little 
later  El-Soo  surprised  the  country.  Word 


THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK         211 

went  up  and  down  the  Yukon  from  Chilcoot  to 
the  Delta,  and  was  carried  from  camp  to  camp 
to  the  farthermost  camps,  that  in  June,  when 
the  first  salmon  ran,  El-Soo,  daughter  of  Kla- 
kee-Nah,  would  sell  herself  at  public  auction 
to  satisfy  the  claims  of  Porportuk.  Vain  were 
the  attempts  to  dissuade  her.  The  missionary 
at  St.  George  wrestled  with  her,  but  she  re 
plied  :  — 

"Only  the  debts  to  God  are  settled  in  the 
next  world.  The  debts  of  men  are  of  this  world, 
and  in  this  world  are  they  settled." 

Akoon  wrestled  with  her,  but  she  replied: 
"I  do  love  thee,  Akoon;  but  honor  is  greater 
than  love,  and  who  am  I  that  I  should  blacken 
my  father?"  Sister  Alberta  journeyed  all  the 
way  up  from  Holy  Cross  on  the  first  steamer, 
and  to  no  better  end. 

"My  father  wanders  in  the  thick  and  endless 
forests,"  said  El-Soo.  "And  there  will  he 
wander,  with  the  lost  souls  crying,  till  the  debt 
be  paid.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  may  he  go 
on  to  the  house  of  the  Great  Father." 

"  And  you  believe  this  ? "    Sister  Alberta  asked. 


212          THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

"I  do  not  know,"  El-Soo  made  answer.  "It 
was  my  father's  belief." 

Sister  Alberta  shrugged  her  shoulders  incredu 
lously. 

"Who  knows  but  that  the  things  we  believe 
come  true?"  El-Soo  went  on.  "Why  not? 
The  next  world  to  you  may  be  heaven  and 
harps  .  .  .  because  you  have  believed  heaven 
and  harps;  to  my  father  the  next  world  may  be 
a  large  house  where  he  will  sit  always  at  table 
feasting  with  God." 

"And  you?"  Sister  Alberta  asked.  "What 
is  your  next  world  ?" 

El-Soo  hesitated  but  for  a  moment.  "I 
should  like  a  little  of  both,"  she  said.  "I 
should  like  to  see  your  face  as  well  as  the  face 
of  my  father." 

The  day  of  the  auction  came.  Tana-naw 
Station  was  populous.  As  was  their  custom, 
the  tribes  had  gathered  to  await  the  salmon- 
run,  and  in  the  meantime  spent  the  time  in 
dancing  and  frolicking,  trading  and  gossiping. 
Then  there  was  the  ordinary  sprinkling  of  white 
adventurers,  traders,  and  prospectors,  and,  in 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK          213 

addition,  a  large  number  of  white  men  who  had 
come  because  of  curiosity  or  interest  in  the  affair. 

It  had  been  a  backward  spring,  and  the  sal 
mon  were  late  in  running.  This  delay  but  keyed 
up  the  interest.  Then,  on  the  day  of  the  auc 
tion,  the  situation  was  made  tense  by  Akoon. 
He  arose  and  made  public  and  solemn  announce 
ment  that  whosoever  bought  El-Soo  would 
forthwith  and  immediately  die.  He  flourished 
the  Winchester  in  his  hand  to  indicate  the  man 
ner  of  the  taking-ofF.  El-Soo  was  angered 
thereat;  but  he  refused  to  speak  with  her,  and 
went  to  the  trading  post  to  lay  in  extra  ammu 
nition. 

The  first  salmon  was  caught  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  and  at  midnight  the  auction  began. 
It  took  place  on  top  of  the  high  bank  alongside 
the  Yukon.  The  sun  was  due  north  just  below 
the  horizon,  and  the  sky  was  lurid  red.  A 
great  crowd  gathered  about  the  table  and  the 
two  chairs  that  stood  near  the  edge  of  the  bank. 
To  the  fore  were  many  white  men  and  several 
chiefs.  And  most  prominently  to  the  fore, 
rifle  in  hand,  stood  Akoon.  Tommy,  at  El-Soo's 


214         THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

request,  served  as  auctioneer,  but  she  made  the 
opening  speech  and  described  the  goods  about 
to  be  sold.  She  was  in  native  costume,  in  the 
dress  of  a  chiefs  daughter,  splendid  and  bar 
baric,  and  she  stood  on  a  chair,  that  she  might 
be  seen  to  advantage. 

"Who  will  buy  a  wife  ?"  she  asked.  "Look 
at  me.  I  am  twenty  years  old  and  a  maid.  I 
will  be  a  good  wife  to  the  man  who  buys  me. 
If  he  is  a  white  man,  I  shall  dress  in  the  fashion 
of  white  women;  if  he  is  an  Indian,  I  shall  dress 
as"  —  she  hesitated  a  moment  —  "a  squaw. 
I  can  make  my  own  clothes,  and  sew,  and  wash, 
and  mend.  I  was  taught  for  eight  years  to  do 
these  things  at  Holy  Cross  Mission.  I  can  read 
and  write  English,  and  I  know  how  to  play  the 
organ.  Also  I  can  do  arithmetic  and  some 
algebra  —  a  little.  I  shall  be  sold  to  the  highest 
bidder,  and  to  him  I  will  make  out  a  bill  of  sale 
of  myself.  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  can  sing  very 
well,  and  that  I  have  never  been  sick  in  my  life. 
I  weigh  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pounds; 
my  father  is  dead  and  I  have  no  relatives.  Who 
wants  me  ?" 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         215 

She  looked  over  the  crowd  with  flaming 
audacity  and  stepped  down.  At  Tommy's 
request  she  stood  upon  the  chair  again,  while 
he  mounted  the  second  chair  and  started  the 
bidding. 

Surrounding  El-Soo  stood  the  four  old  slaves 
of  her  father.  They  were  age-twisted  and 
palsied,  faithful  to  their  meat,  a  generation 
out  of  the  past  that  watched  unmoved  the  antics 
of  younger  life.  In  the  front  of  the  crowd  were 
several  Eldorado  and  Bonanza  kings  from  the 
Upper  Yukon,  and  beside  them,  on  crutches, 
swollen  with  scurvy,  were  two  broken  prospect 
ors.  From  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  thrust  out 
by  its  own  vividness,  appeared  the  face  of  a 
wild-eyed  squaw  from  the  remote  regions  of  the 
Upper  Tana-naw;  a  strayed  Sitkan  from  the 
coast  stood  side  by  side  with  a  Stick  from  Lake 
Le  Barge,  and,  beyond,  a  half-dozen  French- 
Canadian  voyageurs,  grouped  by  themselves. 
From  afar  came  the  faint  cries  of  myriads  of 
wild-fowl  on  the  nesting-grounds.  Swallows  were 
skimming  up  overhead  from  the  placid  surface 
of  the  Yukon,  and  robins  were  singing.  The 


216         THE  WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

oblique  rays  of  the  hidden  sun  shot  through 
the  smoke,  high-dissipated  from  forest  fires  a 
thousand  miles  away,  and  turned  the  heavens 
to  sombre  red,  while  the  earth  shone  red  in  the 
reflected  glow.  This  red  glow  shone  in  the 
faces  of  all,  and  made  everything  seem  un 
earthly  and  unreal. 

The  bidding  began  slowly.  The  Sitkan, 
who  was  a  stranger  in  the  land  and  who  had 
arrived  only  half  an  hour  before,  offered  one 
hundred  dollars  in  a  confident  voice,  and  was 
surprised  when  Akoon  turned  threateningly 
upon  him  with  the  rifle.  The  bidding  dragged. 
An  Indian  from  the  Tozikakat,  a  pilot,  bid 
one  hundred  and  fifty,  and  after  some  time  a 
gambler,  who  had  been  ordered  out  of  the 
Upper  Country,  raised  the  bid  to  two  hundred. 
El-Soo  was  saddened;  her  pride  was  hurt; 
but  the  only  effect  was  that  she  flamed  more 
audaciously  upon  the  crowd. 

There  was  a  disturbance  among  the  onlookers 
as  Porportuk  forced  his  way  to  the  front.  "  Five 
hundred  dollars!"  he  bid  in  a  loud  voice, 
then  looked  about  him  proudly  to  note  the  effect. 


THE   WIT  OF    PORPORTUK         217 

He  was  minded  to  use  his  great  wealth  as  a 
bludgeon  with  which  to  stun  all  competition 
at  the  start.  But  one  of  the  voyageurs,  looking 
on  El-Soo  with  sparkling  eyes,  raised  the  bid  a 
hundred. 

"Seven  hundred!"  Porportuk  returned 
promptly. 

And  with  equal  promptness  came  the  "Eight 
hundred,"  of  the  voyageur. 

Then  Porportuk  swung  his  club  again. 
"Twelve  hundred!"  he  shouted. 

With  a  look  of  poignant  disappointment, 
the  voyageur  succumbed.  There  was  no  fur 
ther  bidding.  Tommy  worked  hard,  but  could 
not  elicit  a  bid. 

El-Soo  spoke  to  Porportuk.  "It  were  good, 
Porportuk,  for  you  to  weigh  well  your  bid. 
Have  you  forgotten  the  thing  I  told  you  —  that 
I  would  never  marry  you!" 

"It  is  a  public  auction,"  he  retorted.  "I 
shall  buy  you  with  a  bill  of  sale.  I  have  offered 
twelve  hundred  dollars.  You  come  cheap." 

"Too  damned  cheap!"  Tommy  cried. 
"What  if  I  am  auctioneer?  That  does  not 


2i8         THE  WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

prevent  me  from  bidding.  I'll  make  it  thirteen 
hundred." 

"Fourteen  hundred,"  from  Porportuk. 

'Til  buy  you  in  to  be  my  —  my  sister," 
Tommy  whispered  to  El-Soo,  then  called  aloud, 
"Fifteen  hundred!" 

At  two  thousand,  one  of  the  Eldorado  kings 
took  a  hand,  and  Tommy  dropped  out. 

A  third  time  Porportuk  swung  the  club  of 
his  wealth,  making  a  clean  raise  of  five  hundred 
dollars.  But  the  Eldorado  king's  pride  was 
touched.  No  man  could  club  him.  And  he 
swung  back  another  five  hundred. 

El-Soo  stood  at  three  thousand.  Porportuk 
made  it  thirty-five  hundred,  and  gasped  when 
the  Eldorado  king  raised  it  a  thousand  dollars. 
Porportuk  again  raised  it  five  hundred,  and 
again  gasped  when  the  king  raised  a  thousand 
more. 

Porportuk  became  angry.  His  pride  was 
touched ;  his  strength  was  challenged,  and  with 
him  strength  took  the  form  of  wealth.  He 
would  not  be  ashamed  for  weakness  before  the 
world.  El-Soo  became  incidental.  The  sav- 


THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK  219 

ings  and  scrimpings  from  the  cold  nights  of  all 
his  years  were  ripe  to  be  squandered.  El-Soo 
stood  at  six  thousand.  He  made  it  seven  thou 
sand.  And  then,  in  thousand-dollar  bids,  as 
fast  as  they  could  be  uttered,  her  price  went  up. 
At  fourteen  thousand  the  two  men  stopped  for 
breath. 

Then  the  unexpected  happened.  A  still 
heavier  club  was  swung.  In  the  pause  that 
ensued,  the  gambler,  who  had  scented  a  specu 
lation  and  formed  a  syndicate  with  several  of  his 
fellows,  bid  sixteen  thousand  dollars. 

"Seventeen  thousand/'  Porportuk  said 
weakly. 

"Eighteen  thousand/'  said  the  king. 

Porportuk  gathered  his  strength.  "Twenty 
thousand." 

The  syndicate  dropped  out.  The  Eldorado 
king  raised  a  thousand,  and  Porportuk  raised 
back;  and  as  they  bid,  Akoon  turned  from  one 
to  the  other,  half  menacingly,  half  curiously,  as 
though  to  see  what  manner  of  man  it  was  that 
he  would  have  to  kill.  When  the  king  pre 
pared  to  make  his  next  bid,  Akoon  having 


220         THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

pressed  closer,  the  king  first  loosed  the  revolver 
at  his  hip,  then  said :  — 

"Twenty-three  thousand." 

"Twenty- four  thousand,"  said  Porportuk. 
He  grinned  viciously,  for  the  certitude  of  his 
bidding  had  at  last  shaken  the  king.  The 
latter  moved  over  close  to  El-Soo.  He  studied 
her  carefully,  for  a  long  while. 

"And  five  hundred,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Twenty-five  thousand,"  came  Porportuk's 
raise. 

The  king  looked  for  a  long  space,  and  shook 
his  head.  He  looked  again,  and  said  reluc 
tantly,  "And  five  hundred." 

"Twenty-six  thousand,"  Porportuk  snapped. 

The  king  shook  his  head  and  refused  to  meet 
Tommy's  pleading  eye.  In  the  meantime  Akoon 
had  edged  close  to  Porportuk.  El-Soo's  quick 
eye  noted  this,  and,  while  Tommy  wrestled 
with  the  Eldorado  king  for  another  bid,  she  bent, 
and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  in  the  ear  of  a  slave. 
And  while  Tommy's  "  Going  —  going  —  go 
ing —  "dominated  the  air,  the  slave  went  up 
to  Akoon  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  in  his  ear. 


THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK         221 

Akoon  made  no  sign  that  he  had  heard,  though 
El-Soo  watched  him  anxiously. 

"Gone!"  Tommy's  voice  rang  out.  "To 
Porportuk,  for  twenty-six  thousand  dollars." 

Porportuk  glanced  uneasily  at  Akoon.  All 
eyes  were  centred  upon  Akoon,  but  he  did  nothing. 

"Let  the  scales   be   brought,"   said   El-Soo. 

"I  shall  make  payment  at  my  house,"  said 
Porportuk. 

"Let  the  scales  be  brought,"  El-Soo  repeated. 
"  Payment  shall  be  made  here  where  all  can  see." 

So  the  gold-scales  were  brought  from  the 
trading  post,  while  Porportuk  went  away  and 
came  back  with  a  man  at  his  heels,  on  whose 
shoulders  was  a  weight  of  gold-dust  in  moose- 
hide  sacks.  Also,  at  Porportuk's  back,  walked 
another  man  with  a  rifle,  who  had  eyes  only  for 
Akoon. 

"Here  are  the  notes  and  mortgages,"  said 
Porportuk,  "for  fifteen  thousand  nine  hundred 
and  sixty-seven  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents." 

El-Soo  received  them  into  her  hands  and  said 
to  Tommy,  "Let  them  be  reckoned  as  sixteen 
thousand." 


222         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

"There  remains  ten  thousand  dollars  to 
be  paid  in  gold,"  Tommy  said. 

Porportuk  nodded,  and  untied  the  mouths  of 
the  sacks.  El-Soo,  standing  at  the  edge  of  the 
bank,  tore  the  papers  to  shreds  and  sent  them 
fluttering  out  over  the  Yukon.  The  weighing 
began,  but  halted. 

"Of  course,  at  seventeen  dollars,"  Porportuk 
had  said  to  Tommy,  as  he  adjusted  the  scales. 

"At   sixteen    dollars,"    El-Soo   said   sharply. 

"It  is  the  custom  of  all  the  land  to  reckon 
gold  at  seventeen  dollars  for  each  ounce," 
Porportuk  replied.  "And  this  is  a  business 


transaction." 


El-Soo  laughed.  "It  is  a  new  custom,"  she 
said.  "It  began  this  spring.  Last  year,  and 
the  years  before,  it  was  sixteen  dollars  an  ounce. 
When  my  father's  debt  was  made,  it  was  six 
teen  dollars.  When  he  spent  at  the  store  the 
money  he  got  from  you,  for  one  ounce  he  was 
given  sixteen  dollars'  worth  of  flour,  not  seven 
teen.  Wherefore,  shall  you  pay  for  me  at  six 
teen,  and  not  at  seventeen."  Porportuk  grunted 
and  allowed  the  weighing  to  proceed. 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         223 

"Weigh  it  in  three  piles,  Tommy,"  she  said. 
"A  thousand  dollars  here,  three  thousand  here, 
and  here  six  thousand." 

It  was  slow  work,  and,  while  the  weighing 
went  on,  Akoon  was  closely  watched  by  all. 

"  He  but  waits  till  the  money  is  paid,"  one  said ; 
and  the  word  went  around  and  was  accepted, 
and  they  waited  for  what  Akoon  should  do 
when  the  money  was  paid.  And  Porportuk's 
man  with  the  rifle  waited  and  watched  Akoon. 

The  weighing  was  finished,  and  the  gold-dust 
lay  on  the  table  in  three  dark-yellow  heaps. 
"There  is  a  debt  of  my  father  to  the  Company 
for  three  thousand  dollars,"  said  El-Soo. 
"Take  it,  Tommy,  for  the  Company.  And 
here  are  four  old  men,  Tommy.  You  know 
them.  And  here  is  one  thousand  dollars. 
Take  it,  and  see  that  the  old  men  are  never 
hungry  and  never  without  tobacco." 

Tommy  scooped  the  gold  into  separate  sacks. 
Six  thousand  dollars  remained  on  the  table. 
El-Soo  thrust  the  scoop  into  the  heap,  and  with 
a  sudden  turn  whirled  the  contents  out  and 
down  to  the  Yukon  in  a  golden  shower.  Por- 


224         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

portuk  seized  her  wrist  as  she  thrust  the  scoop 
a  second  time  into  the  heap. 

"It  is  mine,"  she  said  calmly.  Porportuk 
released  his  grip,  but  he  gritted  his  teeth  and 
scowled  darkly  as  she  continued  to  scoop  the 
gold  into  the  river  till  none  was  left. 

The  crowd  had  eyes  for  naught  but  Akoon, 
and  the  rifle  of  Porportuk's  man  lay  across  the 
hollow  of  his  arm,  the  muzzle  directed  at  Akoon 
a  yard  away,  the  man's  thumb  on  the  hammer. 
But  Akoon  did  nothing. 

"Make  out  the  bill  of  sale,"  Porportuk  said 
grimly. 

And  Tommy  made  out  the  bill  of  sale, 
wherein  all  right  and  title  in  the  woman 
El-Soo  was  vested  in  the  man  Porportuk.  El- 
Soo  signed  the  document,  and  Porportuk  folded 
it  and  put  it  away  in  his  pouch.  Suddenly 
his  eyes  flashed,  and  in  sudden  speech  he  ad 
dressed  El-Soo. 

"But  it  was  not  your  father's  debt,"  he  said. 
"What  I  paid  was  the  price  for  you.  Your 
sale  is  business  of  to-day  and  not  of  last  year 
and  the  years  before.  The  ounces  paid  for 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         225 

you  will  buy  at  the  post  to-day  seventeen  dol 
lars  of  flour,  and  not  sixteen.  I  have  lost  a 
dollar  on  each  ounce.  I  have  lost  six  hundred 
and  twenty-five  dollars." 

El-Soo  thought  for  a  moment,  and  saw  the 
error  she  had  made.  She  smiled,  and  then 
she  laughed. 

"You  are  right,"  she  laughed  "I  made 
a  mistake.  But  it  is  too  late.  You  have 
paid,  and  the  gold  is  gone.  You  did  not 
think  quick.  It  is  your  loss.  Your  wit  is  slow 
these  days,  Porportuk.  Your  are  getting  old." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  glanced  uneasily  at 
Akoon,  and  was  reassured.  His  lips  tightened, 
and  a  hint  of  cruelty  came  into  his  face. 
"Come,"  he  said,  "we  will  go  to  my  house." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  two  things  I  told  you 
in  the  spring  ? "  El-Soo  asked,  making  no  move 
ment  to  accompany  him. 

"My  head  would  be  full  with  the  things 
women  say,  did  I  heed  them,"  he  answered. 

"I  told  you  that  you  would  be  paid,"  El-Soo 
went  on   carefully.     "And   I   told  you  that   I 
would  never  be  your  wife." 
Q 


226         THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK 

"But  that  was  before  the  bill  of  sale."  Por- 
portuk  crackled  the  paper  between  his  ringers 
inside  the  pouch.  "I  have  bought  you  before 
all  the  world.  You  belong  to  me.  You  will 
not  deny  that  you  belong  to  me." 

"I  belong  to  you,"  El-Soo  said  steadily. 

"I  own  you." 

"You  own  me." 

Porportuk's  voice  rose  slightly  and  trium 
phantly.  "As  a  dog,  I  own  you." 

"As  a  dog  you  own  me,"  El-Soo  continued 
calmly.  "  But,  Porportuk,  you  forget  the  thing 
I  told  you.  Had  any  other  man  bought  me,  I 
should  have  been  that  man's  wife.  I  should  have 
been  a  good  wife  to  that  man.  Such  was  my 
will.  But  my  will  with  you  was  that  I  should 
never  be  your  wife.  Wherefore,  I  am  your  dog." 

Porportuk  knew  that  he  played  with  fire,  and 
he  resolved  to  play  firmly.  "Then  I  speak  to 
you,  not  as  El-Soo,  but  as  a  dog,"  he  said; 
"and  I  tell  you  to  come  with  me."  He  half 
reached  to  grip  her  arm,  but  with  a  gesture  she 
held  him  back. 

"Not  so  fast,  Porportuk.     You  buy  a  dog. 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         227 

The  dog  runs  away.  It  is  your  loss.  I  am 
your  dog.  What  if  I  run  away?" 

"As  the  owner  of  the  dog,  I  shall  beat  you  — " 

"When  you  catch  me?" 

"When  I  catch  you." 

"Then  catch  me." 

He  reached  swiftly  for  her,  but  she  eluded 
him.  She  laughed  as  she  circled  around  the 
table.  "Catch  her!"  Porportuk  commanded 
the  Indian  with  the  rifle,  who  stood  near  to  her. 
But  as  the  Indian  stretched  forth  his  arm  to 
her,  the  Eldorado  king  felled  him  with  a  fist 
blow  under  the  ear.  The  rifle  clattered  to  the 
ground.  Then  was  Akoon's  chance.  His  eyes 
glittered,  but  he  did  nothing. 

Porportuk  was  an  old  man,  but  his  cold  nights 
retained  for  him  his  activity.  He  did  not  circle 
the  table.  He  came  across  suddenly,  over 
the  top  of  the  table.  El-Soo  was  taken  off  her 
guard.  She  sprang  back  with  a  sharp  cry  of 
alarm,  and  Porportuk  would  have  caught  her 
had  it  not  been  for  Tommy.  Tommy's  leg 
went  out.  Porportuk  tripped  and  pitched  for 
ward  on  the  ground.  El-Soo  got  her  start. 


228         THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

"Then  catch  me,"  she  laughed  over  her 
shoulder,  as  she  fled  away. 

She  ran  lightly  and  easily,  but  Porportuk 
ran  swiftly  and  savagely.  He  outran  her.  In 
his  youth  he  had  been  swiftest  of  all  the  young 
men.  But  El-Soo  dodged  in  a  willowy,  elusive 
way.  Being  in  native  dress,  her  feet  were  not 
cluttered  with  skirts,  and  her  pliant  body  curved 
a  flight  that  defied  the  gripping  fingers  of  Por 
portuk. 

With  laughter  and  tumult,  the  great  crowd 
scattered  out  to  see  the  chase.  It  led  through 
the  Indian  encampment;  and  ever  dodging, 
circling,  and  reversing,  El-Soo  and  Porportuk 
appeared  and  disappeared  among  the  tents. 
El-Soo  seemed  to  balance  herself  against  the  air 
with  her  arms,  now  one  side,  now  on  the  other, 
and  sometimes  her  body,  too,  leaned  out  upon  the 
air  far  from  the  perpendicular  as  she  achieved 
her  sharpest  curves.  And  Porportuk,  always 
a  leap  behind,  or  a  leap  this  side  or  that,  like  a 
lean  hound  strained  after  her. 

They  crossed  the  open  ground  beyond  the 
encampment  and  disappeared  in  the  forest. 


THE   WIT   OF   PORPORTUK         229 

Tana-naw  Station  waited  their  reappearance, 
and  long  and  vainly  it  waited. 

In  the  meantime  Akoon  ate  and  slept,  and 
lingered  much  at  the  steamboat  landing,  deaf 
to  the  rising  resentment  of  Tana-naw  Station 
in  that  he  did  nothing.  Twenty-four  hours 
later  Porportuk  returned.  He  was  tired  and 
savage.  He  spoke  to  no  one  but  Akoon,  and 
with  him  tried  to  pick  a  quarrel.  But  Akoon 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  away.  Por 
portuk  did  not  waste  time.  He  outfitted  half 
a  dozen  of  the  young  men,  selecting  the  best 
trackers  and  travellers,  and  at  their  head  plunged 
into  the  forest. 

Next  day  the  steamer  Seattle,  bound  up 
river,  pulled  in  to  the  shore  and  wooded  up. 
When  the  lines  were  cast  off  and  she  churned 
out  from  the  bank,  Akoon  was  on  board  in  the 
pilot-house.  Not  many  hours  afterward,  when 
it  was  his  turn  at  the  wheel,  he  saw  a  small 
birch-bark  canoe  put  off  from  the  shore.  There 
was  only  one  person  in  it.  He  studied  it  care 
fully,  put  the  wheel  over,  and  slowed  down. 

The      captain      entered      the      pilot-house. 


230         THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "The 
water's  good." 

Akoon  grunted.  He  saw  a  larger  canoe 
leaving  the  bank,  and  in  it  were  a  number  of 
persons.  As  the  Seattle  lost  headway,  he  put 
the  wheel  over  some  more. 

The  captain  fumed.  "It's  only  a  squaw," 
he  protested. 

Akoon  did  not  grunt.  He  was  all  eyes  for 
the  squaw  and  the  pursuing  canoe.  In  the  lat 
ter  six  paddles  were  flashing,  while  the  squaw 
paddled  slowly. 

"  You'll  be  aground,"  the  captain  protested, 
seizing  the  wheel. 

But  Akoon  countered  his  strength  on  the 
wheel  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  The  captain 
slowly  released  the  spokes. 

"  Queer  beggar,"  he  sniffed  to  himself. 

Akoon  held  the  Seattle  on  the  edge  of  the 
shoal  water  and  waited  till  he  saw  the  squaw'c 
fingers  clutch  the  forward  rail.  Then  he  sig 
nalled  for  full  speed  ahead  and  ground  the  wheel 
over.  The  large  canoe  was  very  near,  but  the 
gap  between  it  and  the  steamer  was  widening. 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK         231 

The  squaw  laughed  and  leaned  over  the  rail. 
"Then  catch  me,  Porportuk!"  she  cried. 

Akoon  left  the  steamer  at  Fort  Yukon.  He 
outfitted  a  small  poling-boat  and  went  up  the 
Porcupine  River.  And  with  him  went  El-Soo. 
It  was  a  weary  journey,  and  the  way  led  across 
the  backbone  of  the  world;  but  Akoon  had 
travelled  it  before.  When  they  came  to  the 
head-waters  of  the  Porcupine,  they  left  the  boat 
and  went  on  foot  across  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

Akoon  greatly  liked  to  walk  behind  El-Soo 
and  watch  the  movement  of  her.  There  was  a 
music  in  it  that  he  loved.  And  especially  he 
loved  the  well-rounded  calves  in  their  sheaths 
of  soft-tanned  leather,  the  slim  ankles,  and  the 
small  moccasined  feet  that  were  tireless  through 
the  longest  days. 

uYou  are  light  as  air,"  he  said,  looking  up 
at  her.  "It  is  no  labor  for  you  to  walk.  You 
almost  float,  so  lightly  do  your  feet  rise  and  fall. 
You  are  like  a  deer,  El-Soo;  you  are  like  a  deer, 
and  your  eyes  are  like  deer's  eyes,  sometimes 
when  you  look  at  me,  or  when  you  hear  a  quick 
sound  and  wonder  if  it  be  danger  that  stirs. 


232         THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

Your  eyes  are  like  a  deer's  eyes  now  as  you  look 
at  me." 

And  El-Soo,  luminous  and  melting,  bent  and 
kissed  Akoon. 

"When  we  reach  the  Mackenzie,  we  will  not 
delay,"  Akoon  said  later.  "We  will  go  south 
before  the  winter  catches  us.  We  will  go  to 
the  sunlands  where  there  is  no  snow.  But  we 
will  return.  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  there  is  no  land  like  Alaska,  no  sun  like 
our  sun,  and  the  snow  is  good  after  the  long 


summer." 


"And  you  will  learn  to  read,"  said  El-Soo. 

And  Akoon  said,  "I  will  surely  learn  to 
read." 

But  there  was  delay  when  they  reached  the 
Mackenzie.  They  fell  in  with  a  band  of  Mac 
kenzie  Indians  and,  hunting,  Akoon  was  shot 
by  accident.  The  rifle  was  in  the  hands  of  a 
youth.  The  bullet  broke  Akoon's  right  arm 
and,  ranging  farther,  broke  two  of  his  ribs. 
Akoon  knew  rough  surgery,  while  El-Soo  had 
learned  some  refinements  at  Holy  Cross.  The 
bones  were  finally  set,  and  Akoon  lay  by  the 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK         233 

fire  for  them  to  knit.  Also,  he  lay  by  the  fire 
so  that  the  smoke  would  keep  the  mosquitoes 
away. 

Then  it  was  that  Porportuk,  with  his  six 
young  men,  arrived.  Akoon  groaned  in  his 
helplessness  and  made  appeal  to  the  Mac- 
kenzies.  But  Porportuk  made  demand,  and 
the  Mackenzies  were  perplexed.  Porportuk 
was  for  seizing  upon  El-Soo,  but  this  they 
would  not  permit.  Judgment  must  be  given, 
and,  as  it  was  an  affair  of  man  and  woman,  the 
council  of  the  old  men  was  called  —  this  that 
warm  judgment  might  not  be  given  by  the  young 
men,  who  were  warm  of  heart. 

The  old  men  sat  in  a  circle  about  the  smudge- 
fire.  Their  faces  were  lean  and  wrinkled,  and 
they  gasped  and  panted  for  air.  The  smoke 
was  not  good  for  them.  Occasionally  they 
struck  with  withered  hands  at  the  mosquitoes 
that  braved  the  smoke.  After  such  exertion  they 
coughed  hollowly  and  painfully.  Some  spat 
blood,  and  one  of  them  sat  a  bit  apart  with 
head  bowed  forward,  and  bled  slowly  and  con 
tinuously  at  the  mouth;  the  coughing  sickness 


234         THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

had  gripped  them.  They  were  as  dead  men; 
their  time  was  short.  It  was  a  judgment  of 
the  dead. 

"And  I  paid  for  her  a  heavy  price,"  Porpor- 
tuk  concluded  his  complaint.  "Such  a  price 
you  have  never  seen.  Sell  all  that  is  yours  — 
sell  your  spears  and  arrows  and  rifles,  sell  your 
skins  and  furs,  sell  your  tents  and  boats  and 
dogs,  sell  everything,  and  you  will  not  have  may 
be  a  thousand  dollars.  Yet  did  I  pay  for  the 
woman,  El-Soo,  twenty-six  times  the  price  of 
all  your  spears  and  arrows  and  rifles,  your  skins 
and  furs,  your  tents  and  boats  and  dogs.  It 
was  a  heavy  price." 

The  old  men  nodded  gravely,  though  their 
weazened  eye-slits  widened  with  wonder  that 
any  woman  should  be  worth  such  a  price.  The 
one  that  bled  at  the  mouth  wiped  his  lips.  "Is 
it  true  talk?"  he  asked  each  of  Porportuk's 
six  young  men.  And  each  answered  that  it  was 
true. 

"Is  it  true  talk?"  he  asked  El-Soo,  and  she 
answered,  "It  is  true." 

"But  Porportuk  has  not  told  that  he  is  an 


THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK         235 

old  man,"  Akoon  said,  "and  that  he  has  daugh 
ters  older  than  El-Soo." 

"It  is  true,  Porportuk  is  an  old  man,"  said 
El-Soo. 

"It  is  for  Porportuk  to  measure  the  strength 
of  his  age,"  said  he  who  bled  at  the  mouth. 
"We  be  old  men.  Behold!  Age  is  never  so 
old  as  youth  would  measure  it." 

And  the  circle  of  old  men  champed  their 
gums,  and  nodded  approvingly,  and  coughed. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  would  never  be  his  wife," 
said  El-Soo. 

"Yet  you  took  from  him  twenty-six  times  all 
that  we  possess?"  asked  a  one-eyed  old  man. 

El-Soo  was  silent. 

"It  is  true?"  And  his  one  eye  burned  and 
bored  into  her  like  a  fiery  gimlet. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said. 

"But  I  will  run  away  again,"  she  broke  out 
passionately,  a  moment  later.  "Always  will 
I  run  away." 

"That  is  for  Porportuk  to  consider,"  said 
another  of  the  old  men.  "It  is  for  us  to  con 
sider  the  judgment." 


236         THE   WIT  OF   PORPORTUK 

"What  price  did  you  pay  for  her?"  was 
demanded  of  Akoon. 

"No  price  did  I  pay  for  her,"  he  answered. 
"She  was  above  price.  I  did  not  measure  her 
in  gold-dust,  nor  in  dogs,  and  tents,  and  furs." 

The  old  men  debated  among  themselves  and 
mumbled  in  undertones.  "  These  old  men  are 
ice,"  Akoon  said  in  English.  "  I  will  not  listen 
to  their  judgment,  Porportuk.  If  you  take 
El-Soo,  I  will  surely  kill  you." 

The  old  men  ceased  and  regarded  him  sus 
piciously.  "We  do  not  know  the  speech  you 
make,"  one  said. 

"He  but  said  that  he  would  kill  me,"  Por 
portuk  volunteered.  "So  it  were  well  to  take 
from  him  his  rifle,  and  to  have  some  of  your 
young  men  sit  by  him,  that  he  may  not  do  me 
hurt.  He  is  a  young  man,  and  what  are  broken 
bones  to  youth !" 

Akoon,  lying  helpless,  had  rifle  and  knife 
taken  from  him,  and  to  either  side  of  his 
shoulders  sat  young  men  of  the  Mackenzies. 
The  one-eyed  old  man  arose  and  stood  upright. 
"We  marvel  at  the  price  paid  for  one  mere 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK         237 

woman,"  he  began;  "but  the  wisdom  of  the 
price  is  no  concern  of  ours.  We  are  here  to  give 
judgment,  and  judgment  we  give.  We  have  no 
doubt.  It  is  known  to  all  that  Porportuk  paid 
a  heavy  price  for  the  woman  El-Soo.  Where 
fore  does  the  woman  El-Soo  belong  to  Porpor 
tuk  and  none  other."  He  sat  down  heavily, 
and  coughed.  The  old  men  nodded  and 
coughed. 

"I  will  kill  you,"  Akoon  cried  in  English. 

Porportuk  smiled  and  stood  up.  "You  have 
given  true  judgment,"  he  said  to  the  council, 
"and  my  young  men  will  give  to  you  much 
tobacco.  Now  let  the  woman  be  brought  to 


me." 


Akoon  gritted  his  teeth.  The  young  men 
took  El-Soo  by  the  arms.  She  did  not  resist, 
and  was  led,  her  face  a  sullen  flame,  to  Por 
portuk. 

"Sit  there  at  my  feet  till  I  have  made  my 
talk,"  he  commanded.  He  paused  a  moment. 
"It  is  true,"  he  said,  "I  am  an  old  man.  Yet 
can  I  understand  the  ways  of  youth.  The  fire 
has  not  all  gone  out  of  me.  Yet  am  I  no  longer 


238         THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

young,  nor  am  I  minded  to  run  these  old  legs  of 
mine  through  all  the  years  that  remain  to  me. 
El-Soo  can  run  fast  and  well.  She  is  a  deer. 
This  I  know,  for  I  have  seen  and  run  after  her. 
It  is  not  good  that  a  wife  should  run  so  fast. 
I  paid  for  her  a  heavy  price,  yet  does  she  run 
away  from  me.  Akoon  paid  no  price  at  all, 
yet  does  she  run  to  him. 

"When  I  came  among  you  people  of  the  Mac 
kenzie,  I  was  of  one  mind.  As  I  listened  in 
the  council  and  thought  of  the  swift  legs  of 
El-Soo,  I  was  of  many  minds.  Now  am  I  of 
one  mind  again,  but  it  is  a  different  mind  from 
the  one  I  brought  to  the  council.  Let  me  tell 
you  my  mind.  When  a  dog  runs  once  away 
from  a  master,  it  will  run  away  again.  No 
matter  how  many  times  it  is  brought  back, 
each  time  it  will  run  away  again.  When  we 
have  such  dogs,  we  sell  them.  El-Soo  is  like  a 
dog  that  runs  away.  I  will  sell  her  Is  there 
any  man  of  the  council  that  will  buy  ?" 

The  old  men  coughed  and  remained  silent. 

"Akoon  would  buy,"  Porportuk  -went  on, 
"but  he  has  no  money.  Wherefore  I  will  give 


THE   WIT   OF    PORPORTUK         239 

El-Soo  to  him,  as  he  said,  without  price.  Even 
now  will  I  give  her  to  him." 

Reaching  down,  he  took  El-Soo  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  across  the  space  to  where  Akoon 
lay  on  his  back. 

"She  has  a  bad  habit,  Akoon,"  he  said, 
seating  her  at  Akoon's  feet.  "As  she  has 
run  away  from  me  in  the  past,  in  the  days  to 
come  she  may  run  away  from  you.  But  there 
is  no  need  to  fear  that  she  will  ever  run  away, 
Akoon.  I  shall  see  to  that.  Never  will  she 
run  away  from  you  —  this  the  word  of  Por- 
portuk.  She  has  great  wit.  I  know,  for  often 
has  it  bitten  into  me.  Yet  am  I  minded  my 
self  to  give  my  wit  play  for  once.  And  by  my 
wit  will  I  secure  her  to  you,  Akoon." 

Stooping,  Porportuk  crossed  El-Soo's  feet, 
so  that  the  instep  of  one  lay  over  that  of  the  other ; 
and  then,  before  his  purpose  could  be  divined, 
he  discharged  his  rifle  through  the  two  ankles. 
As  Akoon  struggled  to  rise  against  the  weight  of 
the  young  men,  there  was  heard  the  crunch  of 
the  broken  bone  rebroken. 

"It  is  just,"  said  the  old  men,  one  to  another. 


240          THE    WIT   OF    PORPORTUK 

El-Soo  made  no  sound.  She  sat  and  looked 
at  her  shattered  ankles,  on  which  she  would 
never  walk  again. 

"My  legs  are  strong,  Ei-Soo,"  Akoon  said. 
"But  never  will  they  bear  me  away  from  you." 

El-Soo  looked  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  all  the  time  he  had  known  her,  Akoon  saw 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Your  eyes  are  like  deer's  eyes,  El-Soo," 
he  said. 

"Is  it  just?"  Porportuk  asked,  and  grinned 
from  the  edge  of  the  smoke  as  he  prepared  to 
depart. 

"It  is  just,"  the  old  men  said.  And  they  sat 
on  in  the  silence. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

•BOD 


KEC'D  LI 


KC.CIR.    WK 

f.'lAR  3  4  1075  79 


BS.  cm.   M 


• 


1977  "" 


•     KC.CIR.SEP    578 


Rec'd  GSS 


MAY     31S79&QK2U 


LD2lA-40m-3,'72 
(Qll738lO)476-A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


